May 19th, 2005

Can't the Catholic church afford Lizzy Grubman to clean up its image?

The last sentence of this article makes the Baby Jesus weep.

New York's great and all, but I really, really miss California. Specifically, driving around in my car listening to music. It's pretty much impossible to ever be bored when you've got CDs and some wheels. Whenever I'd start to get a little itchy-or need some kind of pick-me-up-I'd just hop in good ole' Lucky (and before her, Lucy, and before her, the HPMobile) and drive to the coast with the windows open and my speakers heaving on Volume 30, happy as a crackerjack. I imagine it's the same high one gets from cocaine or speed or learning the barking dog next-door fell down a well.

I get to listen to music at work-which I happily do all day long-but it's just not the same. I'm sure it helps the day inch along a little bit faster, but even the best songs only sound half as good when you're chained to a desk. Especially when it's gorgeous outside and the big bay window you're sitting in front of taunts you like a big surly kid in a Giants cap on a playground.

I don't think people with both a fast metabolism and a mild case of ADHD should be required to sit still in a chair for ten hours a day. And if you saw how twitchy I get, believe me you'd advocate someone taking me out for a walk at least once an hour. If I didn't have to pay rent or buy cell phone minutes, I'd be playing kick ball in a park right now with a Bud Light in one hand and an American flag in the other.

Speaking of proud Americans, I watched Britney and Kevin: Chaotic on TiVo last night. A friend sent me an Entertainment Weekly column that denounced Britney as the most self-obsessed person on the planet, but that's not exactly what I got out of it. Maybe it's because as a 23-year old female, I can easily spot the hidden agenda of members of my cohort, or maybe I'm just cynical, because I'm fairly certain the pop star she's obsessed with is Justin Timberlake. Who else could embarrassingly T.M.I. statements like “I like Kevin and I've never liked someone this much before” and “our sex is so amazing” be directed at but an ex-boyfriend? This show, like her relationship with Federline, seems like one giant, un-intentionally humiliating and nauseatingly un-funny 'haha- look at me now!” to J.T. And like us, he's probably glad he doesn't have to wake up next to that re-re every day.