I pay only tacit attention to the Romney campaign and it's string of gaffes, but I think this "backwash as tip" story is totally fucking amazing.
MITT ROMNEY BACKWASH SIP. That's my new minizine. Coming shortly after the apocalypse.
I saw Batman yesterday and I felt scared most of the time. I am going to write about it over at I Saw That if you care to know more.
You just don't imagine you will ever have to ask another human to stop putting chewed up crackers on their penis. Or chase someone around your house after they took an impromtu shit in the bathtub. You do not know the sudden reserve of rage that will be called forth and that it will somehow be further stoked by the miniature shitter laughing hysterically and yelling "BOOP! BOOP!" in your face. I yelled. He laughed harder. He had won.
Living with a toddler is like pledging a Dartmouth frat, but everyday. No vomelets yet, but close. So much shit. Just, like, everywhere. I won't detail the entire circumstances, but poor Doug-Dave the Dog got a double wash this week after someone wiped their butt on his head. Between this sweet baby and two-year old, really, what we've got is just a crazily efficient poop distribution system.
The backstage VIPpage at Pitchfork’s high heat weekender was knocked off it’s frump game by Molly Soda’s undergarment get ups, as seen above. Pubic hair sticking through yr girdle and a headset mic offstage is a look not everyone can pull of, you know what I mean? I am too old to Seapunk. I am on my Depunk years. Comfortable shoes and shirts I can nurse in.
Second tier looks were far far down—i.e. the dude with scraggly middle part and a ladies beaded earring holding his glasses together who was trying to forcibly sell drugs to Chief Keef’s crew, who were giving him all manner of furrowed brow. Fucking everyone hates aggro hippies. After all was done, after I reported the Keef and Reese story and interviewed Young Chop, Young Chop’s little brother (who is missing an opp by not going by Younger Chop), some cousins and associated crew I was doing the play by play with David Drake from So Many Scramps and Andrew Barber from Fake Shore and a security dude came up and asked “What band are you all in?” “Freelance Poverty” I offered. “We’re a trio”.
Staring at a partially disassembled toddler bed that is temporarily housed in the playroom until tomorrows long journey back to it's ancestral home of the largest Ikea in America (Schaumburg, IL) wondering what is more important: finding the right interview quote in my transcripts about poser satanists in Black Metal or taking a shower because I smell like a French girl in August. Consummate SAHM apres minuit dilemma, surely.
I am four days behind deadline due almost entirely to the nap schedules of my children. Today, at 12:30, shortly after wresting William into his crib (after he'd fallen asleep in the car) I heard a soft but solid thunk. I went and stood outside his door and saw a telltale shadow approaching under the door and suddenly the door flung open with force and there was William, holding the Frog & Toad throughout the seasons book, beaming with pride. He had vaulted out of his crib because he didn't want to go to bed without a story. He would do this jump two more times, one in front of my very eyes. He was electrified by his accomplishment, refused to sleep, demanded two more lunches in increments, ran around screaming his own toddlerfied version of the Hallelujah chorus, surely, including a new word that I believe to be "trampoline". It is as if he has officially turned two this very day and suddenly he is fullbore two. His poor brother languishing in his bouncey seat or ignoring station as we call his "floor gym" with the rattley owl, waiting for his go at the boob or to be handed his green bean chewing toy, while I chase William around trying to keep him from washing his hands in the toilet bowl. Deadlines be damned. Showers be damned. There is a little child on the loose, ecstatic over his own being.