do you take it with milk or lemon?

I am asking this in a completely non-disparaging way:  What are the teabaggers protesting?

I have been seeing pictures on the news with gatherings of hundreds of people.  Some were calling for revolution while others secession, all carrying signs targeting the President and his administration.  Were they expecting that all of the economic troubles that began years ago to disappear within the first 86 days of the new Presidency?  

ugh. facebook.

Yeah. I know. Everyone and their mom is griping about the new facebook layout. Add mine to the pile.

Just like everyone, I am annoyed by the twitter-like feed. It is a completely valid complaint. Figure this: when you send out a tweet, you do your thing and are on your way. I can see what you’re up to, maybe a link to a blog entry, or even a picture. Sure, you might send a couple of @messages, but as a follower I can easily block that out. That’s that. No more.

I’m a monster too!

“She is a monster, too – that is off the record – she is stooping to anything,” – Samantha Power on Hillary Clinton

The wonderful Samantha Power was chatting with the folks over at The Scotsman when she made this little doozy of a statement. Set aside the point that off the record doesn’t seem to hold the same respect as it once did, is it really a big deal?

beyond the rhetoric

There has been a lot of blah-bitty-blah from the Clinton machine, her supporters, and even those I love about Barack Obama. They criticize his experience, his rhetoric, and even his pie-eyed supporters. In as much as I would like to point an equally judgmental finger at all of the negative naysayers, I won’t.

bitchslapping compliments – Part 3

Finishing up all those half-hearted entries, I bring to you a follow-up to Miss Boom Boom’s follow-up, part three of the back-handed compliment series:

genius at work

For the most part, air travel doesn’t phase me. Sure, I usually book the most inconvenient time to travel, pack everything I don’t need at the last possible moment, break out in a cold sweat looking for my passport, get screwed over by Chicago Carrier Cab and make it to the airport with literal seconds to spare. In my mind, it’s like a live action “Choose Your Own Adventure” book.

While I could wax poetic about the abundance of monotony busting lines, or the fury of the delayed plane, or the romance of the baggage claim, I will put all of that on hold.

do not disturb…

On occasion, those who know and love me ask why I blog. Valid question. I have boiled it down to five reasons:

1. Practice writing – Lord knows I need it.
2. Vent about politics – My nearest and dearest don’t seem to share my enthusiasm.
3. A quick word to those I heart – A little less invasive than a mass email.
4. Message in a bottle – Mostly unnecessary blather that is of little interest to anyone within my circle but outside of my brain

Which brings us to reason number five. This, perhaps more than anything else, is the true reason:

it just keeps going on and on…

D’artagnan and I survived the long, harrowing drive back to the Second City on a wing and a prayer.  After having made the trip many times over, I can honestly say that the drive has never been longer.  On average, the journey takes 12 hours.  This time:  15.5 hours.

I would like to take the opportunity to blame the outlier on Pennsylvania.   Yep.  Now hear me out.  Those who know and love me might say, “But you despise the Keystone State.  You’ll find any and all faults possible and exaggerate it to epic proportions.”  To my naysayers, I say “NOT SO!”  It’s true.  I think that PA blows.  But that’s beside the point.  With only a minor stupidity on my part, my tale of woe begins and for the most part ends in the Quaker Province.

You see, being a little wiped from a fun and exhausting week with my East Coast crew [ed:  holla!], I didn’t leave the home of Mr. Math until 1:15 PM.  As Mr. Math has a refrigerator worthy of a bachelor, i.e. half filled bottles of Gatorade and condiments, I thought it necessary to get a little lunch.  Shortly after crossing the NJ/PA border, I pulled off at an exit that advertised a small eatery known as Burger King.

Unlike most highway side fastfooderies, this one was not located at the end of the exit.  I needed to turn left, then go down and around a winding road, past a creepy cemetery, over some train tracks, and then take a short jog past the IGA.  Et voila.

Unfortunately, it was not as easy to find my way back to the highway.  By the time I found the on ramp to 80 East, I was so turned around and discombobulated, I was ready to be done with this state.  So onward and upward.  At some point, and mind you it took me a little while, I noticed that the exit 12 sign read “Hope/Blairstown.”

Ruhroh.

With only 14% genius left in my soul, it took me 14 PA miles, the Delaware Water Gap, and a big honkin’ exit sign for me to realize that, say it with me, I’m in frickin NJ again.

Off and around I go.

The time:  2:30.  Let’s just start anew, shall we?  Nah.  Forget it.  Let’s just skip to the highlights.  Shortly after D’artagnan’s first feeding, I needed to slam on the breaks.  As it turns out, not 20 cars ahead of me, a truck was on its side blocking the right lane.  I’ve never actually seen someone climb out of a car after being in that kind of accident, but there you have it.  In any case, there was serious rubbernecking, myself included.  What?  Like you’ve never been tempted?!  Come on.  Truck on its side.  Long story short, no one was hurt, and 45 minutes was tacked onto the trip.

Fast forward to somewhere around mile marker 173.  I enter into a random pocket of traffic.  We stop.  We don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move.  Turn car off.  Wait.  Wait.  Wait.  This goes on for another 20 minutes before we are able to crawl forward another 30 feet.  Rinse.  Repeat.  There is no indication as to the why of it all until about 2 miles into my purgatory.

It seems that somewhere off in the distance, there is construction.  As a complete aside, I hate the signs that say “construction zone:  do not exceed 45 mph.”  Now I fully agree with slowing down when workers are present.  I just hate seeing them when I’m not moving at all.  It’s like a big F-U to everyone stuck in the muck of traffic.

Anywho, one hour later, I am at mile marker 168.  What do I finally see?  Construction cones.  Mind you, there is no actual construction.  Just cones.  No trucks, no workers, no roads being torn up, no sign of anything.  Just cones.  For 4 miles.  Then the construction zone ends.  Sigh.

As for the rest of PA, let just say:  Two lanes, one lane, two lanes, one lane, and on and on.

So my dear friends, this little episode is one in a growing list of why Pennsylvania fills me with rage.   Not that the Dan Ryan is any better, but that’s a rage will be there for the next 3 years, so why bother?

a moment to lose my cool…

Those who know and love me have good reason to worry. Girlfriend’s sanity is hanging by a piece of dental floss. At some point, my world view shifted in a way I can’t appreciate. I now have zero tolerance for those who are not entirely self sufficient. I have little to no patience for the judgmental people in my sphere. I am floored when I am required to repeat myself. Honestly, I am starting to believe the world to be populated by complete morons.

Idiots.

All of them.

This is not a good way for me to be. This isn’t me. Sigh. What happened to the sweet, fun-loving, party girl? Maybe I miss Chicago. It is odd to think, as I know and love so many people here. I grew up here. I was raised here. It’s familiar. It’s home. But frankly, this isn’t the same place it was when, you know, crack was king.

Maybe I was too young to notice, but since when did everyone in this city become so !@#$ competitive? It’s about who is working late every night. It’s about how much someone makes. It’s about who has the better apartment, who is wearing what dress, who ate at which restaurant, who is seen with what person, who is going to the better parties, who had the best weekend, blah, blah, blah.

Seriously. Give it a rest. For a girl who has spent a lifetime not giving a crap about the superficial, I can’t seem to escape it. If I want to spend the weekend in my jammies watching TV, eff you for judging me. If I want to see Transformers instead of Mon Meilleur Ami, get over it. If I want to order in from the cheap diner around the corner instead of hitting the new Sino-French fusion place, eat it.

Like I said. Girlfriend is so very close to losing it.

need a little advice…

Someone’s feet stink. 

While I might be prone to hyperbole, I can honestly say that it’s the sixth worst smell I’ve ever encountered.  Literally.

We were watching TV when I first noticed it.  I thought that it might be me.  Mortified, I scrubbed my feet all the way to lemony freshness. Returning to the scene of the crime, I realized.  No.  This pungent aroma emanates from another source. 

Ugh.  The smell.  It’s the kind stench that takes up residence in your nostrils, and adds an extension throughout the rest of your nasal cavity.  No exaggeration.  Worst of all, it got in my mouth.  I gargled for a good ten minutes trying to get clean.  Nauseating.  Simply nauseating. 

I was hoping that it was a one shot deal.  I’ve said it before, and I will say it again.  If hope is a thing with feathers, my thing flew the coop.  My luck, it’s probably a chronic,  summer stink, or maybe a glandular thing.  Either way, his absolute ignorance of the tang is mind boggling.  

Can he not smell that?  I mean, really!  Does he think that I can’t?!  Did I mention that he likes to put the duo of rankness on the coffee table?  Good grief.

So how does one kindly let someone they know and love that their feet either need to be decontaminated, or hacked off and tossed in with the rest of the rotting compost?  Let me know.  Meanwhile, I’ll be waiting over here. 

Gagging.

when snarky comments happen to good posts…

For those who know and love the machinations of wordpress, you might have noticed that the feed stats have been retired. It was fun while it lasted.

In any case, there was a bit of a fracas that erupted on the forums that made me laugh. I know I shouldn’t but it is kind of fun when techies get into a slap-fight.

June 13th resolution: I will not laugh at the wounded ego of others.

what doesn’t kill you leaves you for dead.

B.H. McTease was in the midst of a massive something at his work-a-day. It was during the hullabaloo where someone bemoaned, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Uh. Not really.

Not to be a major downer, but I don’t know if that truism is even mostly true. And frankly, if we were to parse the statement, don’t most things kill you? Sure, sometimes it is in super slo-mo, but still. Let’s think about it for a second.

Veggies: Unless someone drives a celery through your heart, chances are good that your veggies are not going to kill you. They might even make you stronger. Score one for the truism.

Fruits: Once again, unless you choke on it, it won’t likely kill you. Unless of course it’s a kiwi, and you are me. Then you will die. Or at least suffer anaphylaxis. On the chance that you do survive, you won’t be stronger. You will just feel itchy, and a bit swollen from the steroid treatment. All this talk about fruit and steroids is making me hungry. And a little resentful. On fruits, I am calling it a draw.

Exercise: Give another shout to the truism. Although you might drop, you might also give me twenty. Breaks you down, and makes you strong.

the Subway Series series: Part 3 – The Mets, the NYPD, and the inconsistencies of pocket pals

Part 1 – The Rant ::::: Part 2 – ¡Buen viaje!

[EDIT: Fixed the footnotes. Sorry about that! st.oki]

After a short morning in the Jerse pretending to help my Righteous Ms. Al get ready for the move to Bonus Eye Rays, we rushed to get me back to the city. You see, my dear friends. Girlfriend had another game to attend. The “Second Chance” offered by the Mets site was definitely kind to your girl. I was able to pick up four tickets to the Saturday game, and was over the moon excited.

When purchasing the tickets, the plan was to bring Mr. Math, Miss Boom Boom, and her roommate, Ms. Same Name As My Sister (aka MS. NAMS). It was my feeble attempt at a thank you so much for letting me invade your futon while I get my crap together. Unfortunately, MS. NAMS makes doing nice things very difficult. Though she would have loved, loved, LOVED the tickets, she and boy were hightailing it to Boston for the weekend. [1] Probably for the best, as she is a Yankees fan.

In a completely unrelated turn of events, Mr. Math was heading up to Boston as well. Could it be that Mr. Math would leave me without my baseball bookend?! Well dang. He sure did. It seems that I was running low on people who might truly appreciate the fun of this game.

I turned to Miss Boom Boom and asked her if there was anyone she wanted to invite. This question was a no brainer. She was going to invite my little Pocket Pal, Flaky. Needless to say, I was super excited. My pocket has long been lacking a cute little something, and Flaky always fits the bill.

Using my revisionist powers, guest number three was the phenomenal Ms. Dig that Crazy J. When approached with the notion of going to the game, her response: “Where should me and my giant foam finger meet you?!” Seriously, could you ask for a better plus one? You could try, but you would probably fail. Where was I? Ah, yes. Game time. I returned to Astoria for a quick freshen, and sanity check. The troops have been assigned, I’m in my home team black, and I have but one question. WHO’S READY TO ROCK?!?!

Apparently, just me.

You see, Miss Boom Boom was coming off of a boon of business travel, and just about ran herself into the ground. By game time, she was down for the count. My poor dear was exhausted, curled up in the fetal position, and groaning up a storm. As much as I wanted to pull out my powers of guilty persuasion, I just couldn’t. Seeing Miss Boom Boom in all of her pathetic glory was reason enough to leave my superpower in check.

Well, all is not lost. I had been texting Flaky the Pocket Pal for most of the afternoon. I would just have him bring another adorable Pocket Pal, and we would be right as rain. Simple. Or umm… maybe not.

You see my dears; the name Flaky is more than apropos. Apparently, my sweet little thing decided that he was far too hung over for a journey out to Shea. It was nice for him to give me a little warning though. And by little, I mean fifteen minutes before we were to leave for Flushing. And by warning, I mean texting Miss Boom Boom a wishy-washy excuse and hiding from my calls. [2]

Okay. Now I have two tickets that might go unused to the Subway Series.THE G-D SUBWAY SERIES! What does a girl do? Well, she texts her entire tri-state contingency and said that the tickets are up for grabs to anyone who can get to Flushing. By the way, did I mention that the first pitch was in a mere 35 minutes? For cryin’ out loud! I have two tickets to a game that a majority of the baseball fans within a 100 mile radius were pining for, and I can’t give them away. Or so I would like to believe.

Miss Boom Boom kindly informed me that I might be able to sell them, either at Shea, or on the 7 train on the way to the game. “But isn’t that illegal?” Famous last words. I love her, but her notion was dubious at best. Not only was the weather overcast, bordering on rain, but the game is in frickin’ Flushing. Why would anyone head out there if they didn’t already have a ticket, now 20 minutes before the first pitch? Your guess is as good as mine. So there I am, wandering up and down the train, trying to sell these tickets. People are looking at me like I am the scourge of the earth. By the time I reach Shea, I am disheartened.

At this point, I am already late, and I am late meeting up with Ms. Dig that Crazy J. What to do, what to do? Then, a light at the end of the tunnel. These two cuties walk up to me. I swear, one of them looked like the Commish, except tall. The asked “Are you selling any?” I said, “Yeah. I have two.” Then they said, “How much?” I said, “the game already started. I will give you two for one.”

In a moment that I can only call part eighty-five in my comedy of errors, the cute, non-Commish boy frowns, shakes his head, and said, “Damn. You are such a sweet girl. I hate to do this, but I am going to have to give you a ticket.” I said, “I don’t want any tickets. I am just trying to get rid of mine.” He said, “No. I am going to have to WRITE you a ticket. Reselling tickets is a crime.”

Um… But I am from Chicago?

Try as I might, the boys in not-so-Blue wouldn’t budge. I tried cute, charming, proletarian, watering the eyes, anything. “Come on! This is a victimless crime if ever there was one,” I plead. Nothing. Then, I took a long hard look. They were wearing Yankee jerseys. Ugh. I should have known. In a strange turn of events, they said, “we are supposed to confiscate these, but just take them.”

Huh?

In moment eighty-six, a frat-boy from Cleveland came up to me and asked if I was selling. Where were you ten minutes ago?! I gave the dude the tickets, no strings, and wished him well. The cop said, direct quote, “This is a very sweet girl. She is doing a very nice thing. You better buy her drinks and dogs for the rest of the game. I know where you are sitting.” Love the commish, even if the bastage did give me 5 demerits!

Saying farewell to the hall monitors, I raced around Shea to see Ms. Dig that Crazy J standing there panicked, foam finger and all. We finally went in, saw a great game, and watched all of the people with the expensive seats get rained on, while we working class had it made in the shade.

THE END

[1] There is sweet, and then there is insulin coma inducing sweet. MS. NAMS is just about the most accommodating person I have known. She barely knows me, and on Miss Boom Boom’s recommendation, she has allowed me to invade hearth and home. I have been trying to find the right gift, but she neither wants nor needs anything. ARGH! I am having kittens trying to find a way to thank her properly. Perhaps it is my need to convey my appreciation. Perhaps I’m trying to compensate for my intrusion into her world. Perhaps it’s that I don’t want this wedding day favor hanging over my head. In any case, I am obsessed with finding a way to buy her off. It’s not like she’s going to leave a banjo head on my pillow if I don’t comply. I am just saying.

[2] To all of my loved ones who approach potential disappointment infliction by hiding, please cease and desist. It is annoying and really frustrating. It drives everyone crazy, and makes us not want to include you in plans. Then, you wonder why you weren’t invited.

the Subway Series series: Part 1 – The Rant

:: BEGIN RANT

Like many baseball fans worth their salt, I believe that interleague play should be abandoned. It is an irritating practice that is used by the man to make money off of contrived historic match-ups.

Let’s face it. While some fans might be amused by the practice, it completely devalues the games of relevance. The Subway Series, The Crosstown Classic, The Battle of the Beltway? Big effin’ deal. On the hard-earned chance that any long-time rivals get to dance at the big show, where is the g-d gravitas?!

Mets v. Red Sox, folks?

I like interleague play the way it was meant to be.

In the frickin’ World Series.

:: END RANT

Part 2 – ¡Buen viaje!

girlfriend can do SO much better…

Boarding a plane is an insane experience. There is the slight flush when you see that your row is empty. Could a girl be so lucky? Usually not. You hope for the best, but to no avail. You make the best of a situation and hope that the person next to you is either cute, interesting, or very sleepy. You hope that they don’t smell, have an ample supply of gum. You hope that they won’t roll their eyes when you accidentally start making small talk. Any hope that one might harbor is immediately dashed when a gushy couple invades your beautifully empty row. Welcome to my world.

It was 0700 hours, and there I was on an ATA flight out of LaGuardia. As I said, it’s probably too much to think that I might get an empty row. They appeared out of nowhere. Actually, that’s kind of what it felt like. I was in the exit row, and they went around the row in front and snuck to the inside seats. Like skulking Jedis. Guess you had to be there. Kind of hard to paint the word picture. Anyhow, it was not a minute before they started with the canoodling.

Seriously, get a room. It was seven in the morning, and they were being ridiculous. I try to ignore it, but they were right there. So then I took a good long look. The girl was kind of adorable. She had that slightly aged, varsity cheerleader look to her. The guy? Egads. I don’t like to think of myself as vain, but woof.

There was nothing pretty, or even slightly charming about this dude. Greasy hair, bad skin, little teeth. How on earth did he get this chick. I really don’t get it. To pad his resume of charm, he whips out a photography magazine and starts lecturing his gal pal on the pros and cons of aperture settings. Not for nothing, but half the turds flying from his mouth were totally wrong. That just made him uglier. Of course, me being me peeked over to see what magazine he was using as his prop, and he thought that he had captured another admirer. My luck, it encourages him. He starts speaking louder, in that bizarre, slightly strained tone that one takes on when they want others to overhear their conversation. You’ve done it, so don’t pretend you don’t know what I am talking about. FYI, not everyone is interested. I privately cringed and then put on my iPod. That’s right. We weren’t even at 10,000 feet! I am such a rebel!

May 11th resolution: Tune out the ugly man. Tune in AC360.

MUST. CONTAIN. RAGE!

In the printed world, there seems to be an agreed upon symbol string that one uses instead of cussing. Something like !@#$!

Welcome to my morning, except with more exclamation marks. “What is she going on about?” you might ask. Excellent question, my dear hearts. Seems that girlfriend needed to get up before sunrise for a conference call to the UK. Seems that all of the numbers I received are worthless. Seems that nobody is on hand to help a sista out. Seems that I woke up for nothing. Even my usual Lou Piniella emoticon cannot convey my fury.

Will the good citizens of NY be spared a harrumphing little gal? Will a nap save your Genghis from a perilously grumpy day? Will someone please tell me what happened on Heroes last Monday? Only one way to find out.

BTW: Chicago bound on Friday. I will be there until Sunday early morn. Find me?

foiled by smatt read

For the most part, the Sunday puzzle is a fun challenge. While I usually solve it before Thursday, it is definitely down to the wire on some [1]. This week?

Totally grasping at straws.

For some reason, the only answer I could think of was “jade plant.” Plant, as in Robert Plant, and Jade, as in Ms. Jade of Beat Club Records.

Like I said, a stretch. I am sure that when I hear the correct answer, I will feel suitably mortified. In any case, if anyone’s figured it out, please correct me. I am festering in my wrongitude.

In the meantime, I’ll just be over here shaking an angry fist at Will Shortz. At least, that is, until I get my lapel pin. Sigh.

EDIT:  ARGH!  Who feels dumb now?!  Not only was I not even close, but the answer was so obvious!  PETTY CASH!  argh.

_____________________________________________________
[1] For some reason, most of the people selected to play the Sunday Puzzle with Will and Leanne will say something like “Oh, I got the answer to the puzzle right away. I solved it on the way home from brunch.” Almost every dang one of them. Just once, I would love to hear, “You know, I did a Google search, and read every single entry on Greek gods in Wikipedia, until I realized that the answer was a Roman god. By that point, I was just using my mad search engine skills until the answer jumped out at me. Even then, I wasn’t too sure, but I figured, hey you wouldn’t pick me unless I was right. So here I am. Oh crap, you’re going to make me do anagrams?!” A girl can dream.

rudeness, customer style…

Working at the coffee house has been a delicious caffeinated treat. For the most part, the neighbors have been friendly, welcoming, and really supportive of a coffee that isn’t served by a multi-national corporation. But then, what would a day be without the presence of the least part?

On my first day, a fellow barista served up a double espresso. It seems that a woman ordered this beverage to-go for her husband. He was waiting outside. She received her drinks, paid with a credit card, and took off. A few minutes later, she returned.

She came up to me and sotto voce said, “This espresso is cold.” I asked if she wanted a new one, and she said, “No. That’s alright. My husband is a chef. He wanted me to tell you that it was cold.” Um. Okee doke. How about a refund? Then she repeated, “He just thought you guys should know.” What I think she was gently trying to say was “Mr. Chef said that you gave him a cold espresso.” Either that, or “Mr. Chef thinks you have discovered a great method for cold extraction and we should go into business together!”

After Mrs. Chef left again, I began my investigation. That’s right. I stuck my finger in the drink. Yes, I licked it. I am not ashamed, scientific method and all. I’d do it again. Visually, the crema was beautiful and plentiful, and the coffee seemed the perfect color and texture. On the down side, the thermometer read 57°F and any aromatics were gone, gone, gone. I went to the machine and pulled a test espresso. 23 second pull, serving temperature a piping 155°F. So much for cold extraction. Well then, why would Mr. Chef think we would serve cold coffee?

Mr. Chef doesn’t understand thermodynamics.

Quick math problem: if you put 3 fl. ozs. of 155°F espresso into a paper cup, wait 30 seconds for a credit card to clear, give it a 16 second jostle while trying to rebalance three beverages and a purse, and then take a 40 second walk across the street to deliver said beverage to Mr. Chef, who has been waiting outside on a 38° F afternoon, what will the temperature of the espresso be? If you said frickin’ cold, give yourself a gold star. Mr. Chef should know better. Props to Mrs. Chef for rolling her eyes when delivering the message.

go ahead. ask him…

I don’t know if any of you watch C-SPAN. I don’t, but I don’t have cable either. With that said, it was on some random holiday that I came across my latest obsession: Prime Minister’s Question Time.

Every Wednesday at noon local time, the Prime Minister stands and answers questions from other MPs. It begins with a question about his day. Something to do with Parliamentary process I think. Anywho, what follows are questions ranging from local business closings to questions about the war to questions about football. The PM flips through this insane binder of facts so that he might answer to the best of his abilities. Sometimes, he answers long, pointed, leading questions with his own diatribe. Sometimes, he just says “no.” Always good for a laugh.

for whom does she speak?

I cannot claim to be a fan of Ann Coulter. A few years ago, I checked out one of her books from the library to see what the hullabaloo was about. Okay, so the lady has her opinions. So do I. I find her work to be grating, hateful, and inaccurate. Can someone explain to me how she ends up on the bestsellers list time and again? Seriously.

Fast forward to yesterday.

are you on myspace?

I don’t want a myspace account.

No, no, no! I am horrendous at replying to emails, I rarely update this blog, and I can’t even figure out how to upload a picture to my profile. I am not in a band, promoting a movie, a reality TV star, a teenage girl, or a middle aged pervert. While I understand that it is a convenient place to advertise that I might have friends, that kind of validation is not necessary in my world.

Way back in the day, I was forced onto friendster. Again, why? It is a lumbering dinosaur of a site with no redeeming value. I have a friend there that does nothing but add more and more pictures. To this day, she is still beating that dead horse. While I am amused at her photoshop skills, enough already. I don’t know anyone who has made a new friend, acquaintance, or love connection. In fact, I know more people who have met by way of craigslist.

At this point, to get a myspace account would be weak. I have no need for being bleeding edge, nor do I care about what’s the what, but I refuse to buy a ticket for the 2:45 bandwagon. I would rather climb into my wayback machine and jump back to 2003. That way, I could hit myspace when there was a modicum of hipster appeal. Oh, wait. I can’t. No matter. Now that it is owned by Rupert Murdoch, it is way past over.

Just like I will remain one of those few that have never seen Titanic, I will be that girl without a myspace account.

I can only hope that my loved ones will understand, and support my decision.