Comment This

When Lucia Pamela approached me with the idea for this blog, I couldn't have been more excited.

When the posts began, my level of excitement tripled.

And then, people who weren't us began to read the blog--which is beyond thrilling.

And then, they started commenting.

Fuck that.

The very first comment on the very first post, reads as such:

I got laid off in May of 2007. So I do ask for the nickel back.

Our reader is, of course, referring to Lucia Pamela's post in which she describes bringing her own reusable sack to the Whole Foods and being asked if she'd like to donate the FIVE CENT refund to the Tree People. Lucia Pamela's ire is second to none when she hears that people actually do want the nickel back.

Our reader is one of the nickel-takers because, as she says, she got laid off in May of 2007. I'll almost buy that the nickel is important to her. I'm freelance and being out of work even for a month sucks--I can't imagine being unemployed for over a year! Of course, when I'm not working, I tend to not shop at the most expensive grocery store on the planet, tree people be damned. I was intrigued by our readers' situation, so I clicked on over to her blog, which reveals that she actually has a job.

What. The. Hell?

Why are you pretending to be out of work for a Comment on a Blog? What's going on over there? I, for one, am not interested in hearing from a Bliar™! (*One who lies via Blog!) It's a good thing she likes Dunkin' Donuts. It's her only saving grace.

While I was all bitched up about this one, I made the mistake of looking at the only other comment on our blog. I became blind with rage when I read what Anonymous had to say:

What does ABU think about men who use the ladies room when the mens room is full at a restaurant? It's cutting in a way. But, I'm always sure to leave the seat cleaner than I found it, which usually isn't hard.

First of all, anonymous, this isn't Who's Line Is It Anyway. We're not taking suggestions on what to bitch about. Do you see Wayne Brady listed as a contributor? Believe you me, we have plenty of things to complain about on our own without you throwing your two cents in. (Calm down, Nickel-Taker Bliar™... it's just a figurative two cents.)

Secondly, what the hell are you talking about? Where are you going that the men's room is full at a restaurant? This isn't happening in real life, unless you're at a gay bar. And you shouldn't be eating at gay bars. Gross.

Thirdly: Shhhhhhhhh.

I don't want to bite the hands that feed us, but people please be aware: If you're going to leave comments, don't be the very people we're all bitched up about.

You're Not Helping

I listen to a lot of talk radio. A lot of AM talk radio. NPR bores me. I like my radio like I like my whiskey - scratchy and cheap and if you sit with it to long you'll lose your mind.

I listen to weird religious stuff in the morning, weird liberal stuff in the afternoon, and that talk show on AM 640 about shapeshifting reptoids at night. I even listen to Rush Limbaugh, and his equivalent on the left, Randi Rhodes, who both take turns screaming about crazy shit and calling for the execution of whoever they're angry at that day.

Anyway, despite my very eclectic talk radio tastes, I'm a liberal person. I hate Bush. I think we should be out of Iraq, which is why I really hate this terrible radio commercial that airs on the liberal talk station every hour or so...

This is the commercial:

SETTING: A Loud Bar.

WOMAN - This army recruitment officer just hit on me! He says everybody really loves the war!

MAN - Hardly! Have you seen Mike since he got back from combat?

WOMAN - It's so sad! He had such a great life, and now it's ruined. We've GOT to get out of Iraq!

MAN - That's why I wear this pin! (continue on to spiel about the awesome pin he has that says Peace is Patriotic or something and how you can buy awesome pins like that at a website.)

So yeah, I guess my main question is, WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? What happened to their friend Mike, and why don't they seem to care? Do they leave Mike at the hospital and say "See you later, dude! We're going to that loud bar in the strip mall next to the army recruitment center. Don't worry - if an army recruitment guy hits on Shirley, I'll just show her my awesome pin and remind her about how you don't have legs anymore."

Rush Limbaugh exists because of half-assed propaganda like that.

And also, because I keep listening to him.

Put Out To Pasture

Recently, I find myself watching 60 Minutes on Sunday nights which has led me to complain about the ultimate complainer, one Mr. Andy Rooney. I can't claim that I actually understand the programming on CBS. Personally I think most of their shows are terrible, but I'd like to believe that the network that brought us Edward R. Murrow and probably one of the few repritable news programs during my lifetime, could find something better to air in the last five minutes of their broadcast, than a pompous old wind bag.

I'd say the thing that most concerns me about Mr. Rooney's broadcasts is the fact that he complains about nothing of merit. The past couple of segments that I've seen, he's wasted what little precious oxygen he has left during his lifetime babbling on about the old clothes in his closet and the annoyance of air travel in the US these days. I will say the latter actually makes sense, but tell us something we don't know! Everyone knows that traveling in this country in a post 9/11 world is a hassle, so unless you're opening my eyes to something I don't know about air travel, please do us a favor and shut up! Besides, what exotic location is Andy Rooney flying off to anyway? He doesn't strike me as a world traveler extraordinaire, so as far as I'm concerned, his opinion on that topic is obsolete. I'm not even going to comment on the spring cleaning segment.

My other major complaint, is the fact that Andy Rooney is on every week. I don't know about you, but I don't care enough about what he has to say, to listen to him every week. At best he should make a cameo appearance. I know he's an icon at 60 Minutes, but his opinions are outdated and he's getting on in years, so cut them back to a couple of shows a month. Kind of like a guest star on a sitcom. Let him pop in every once in a while to share his thoughts on a subject and then call it a day. In short, put Andy Rooney out to pasture. Besides, he could probably use all that down time to trim his eye brows.

Edit This

The moment I heard the words, “People who don’t give their nickels to the Tree People should be killed,” come out of my mouth, I should have realized I would be getting my period within the week.

I was buying my lunch at the Whole Foods in Sherman Oaks last Friday (which, by the way, used to be another health food store called Mrs. Gooches, a real drift-wood-macrame-and-bare-feet-1970’s kind of health food store and, unfortunately, still smells like a naked hippy’s unwashed yoga mat). I actually remembered to bring my very chic black & white flower print rollupandsnaptogether grocery sack that I bought at some overpriced and groovy recycling store in Eagle Rock so I could become part of the solution, but still look cute. The cashier told me I’d get a nickel off my purchase for bringing my own bag. He then asked if I wanted to donate the nickel to The Tree People. A nickel. I said sure. And then I joked, “Does anyone ever ask for the nickel back?” The cashier and the woman bagging my groceries exchanged smirks, and the Baggette said, “Oh, yeah. All the time.” I couldn’t believe it. It isn’t as though the Prius driving, valley dwelling swells who shop organic are throwing rent parties. This isn’t a Jon’s, after all.

That Sunday, I went to buy some frames at the “buy one and get a second for a penny sale” at Aaron Brothers. I needed to hang some vintage mugshots of women arrested in Philly in the 1960’s, that I purchased recently on ebay from a retired cop. I was standing in the parking lot loading the purchases into my trunk, when my friend Arthur looked over my shoulder and shook his head. Behind me, a canary yellow Hummer was idling, waiting for the car in front of it to move. Arthur informed me the driver had just thrown a plastic cup out of the window. Sure enough, there on the ground next to the truck was an empty frappacino cup from The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.

I hate litterers. Hate, hate, hate. I mean, I’m not out in the back mulching or anything; I don’t even recycle. But who throws garbage on the ground? Was this person raised by wolves? Which reminds me of one time when I was in Griffith Park and I saw a guy teaching his little boy how to shoot bottle caps by snapping them between his fingers so they’d fly over the cliff into the bushes. I turned to him and pleaded, “Please don’t do that! This is a park!” He smiled at me, shrugged and responded, “It’s ok. It’s just bottle caps.”

Anyway, so I marched over to the Coffee Bean cup, picked it up and walked a couple of steps toward the open window of the Hummer. The driver was a woman in her late 20’s or early 30’s, with lots of makeup, strange blond highlights and a bad perm. Handing her the cup, I smiled and explained firmly, yet sweetly (well, maybe not sweetly), “You dropped this.” She looked at me in disbelief and accepted the cup. Icily she thanked me. “You’re welcome,” I shot back smugly. As I approached Arthur he looked beyond me and announced, “Good job. She drove two feet and threw the cup out the window again.”

Tuesday morning I got my period. I rolled in to work late and met Jeff in the kitchen. Over granola and yogurt, we began discussing the brouhaha over the New Yorker cover depicting Obama and his wife as gun wielding terrorists, while behind them the American flag burns in their fireplace. We agreed that we hate everyone, something we do at least once or twice a day over one thing or another. Then a tall, thin, blond editor with dark bags under her eyes who was peering into the refrigerator nearby chimed in. “Did you see that cartoon? I think it was HORRIBLE!” I disagreed, telling her I thought it was great. She replied, “It hit a little too close to home.” I informed her that is what good satire is supposed to do. As she walked past me toward the microwave, probably carrying some tasteless vegan disaster, she tossed out, “Maybe it was just for smart people, like you.” I agreed that it probably was, turned to Jeff, and asked him to remind me to renew my New Yorker subscription.

Bitch.