Separated At Birth

Pope

Hamburglar

My veternarian can suck it.

If you're the kind of person who doesn't read post titles, allow me to repeat:

MY VETERNARIAN CAN SUCK IT.

I am so sick of bringing my animal in and getting yelled at.

You're not brushing him enough. You're feeding him the wrong food. You should buy this organic shit that costs $39 dollars for a 2 lb bag and I will look at you like a cannibal who practices incest should you show the slightest hesitation.

I realize there are ways I could improve as a cat mother. But the fact that I'm even bringing the little fucker in to your establishment already puts me in a better position than 99% of people out there.

He's neutered. He has his shots. I didn't have him declawed, and thus have to had to give up on my dream of owning awesome wicker furniture like the kind Jack and Crissy have on Three's Company. I got him as an adult. I didn't buy a kitten from a huge chain store that acquires animals from dubious sources and subsequently give it away because the litterbox doesn't match my Crate & Barrel furniture. He's fat because I GOT HIM THAT WAY and I don't understand why, after 5 times in 5 visits, you still haven't managed to absorb that story.

I just gave you $150 dollars for 15 minutes of work. There are people who DOUSE CATS WITH GASOLINE AND LIGHT THEM ON FIRE. Can I get a little credit? Just a little? Thank you, Dr. Doolittle. You can go back to painting watercolors of your Bichon Frise or whatever it is you do in your spare time.

Eagle. Then Penis.

Third day in new apartment. I'm supposed to be nesting but I don't wanna. I've unpacked enough that I can go to work without looking like I belong in a methadone queue but no so much that I have to stop using paper plates and start doing dishes.

Partially broke up with shrink today. I'm going to go every other week instead of weekly. This is good. I'm out of stuff to talk about. The big problems have gotten better and now it's just disjointed bitching.

Rush hour yesterday there was a penis show on the F train. I was sitting across from this guy and happened to glance at his crotch (AS IS MY RIGHT AS AN AMERICAN CITIZEN) and there was his hard-on, peeping out of his shorts. Denim shorts. Long denim shorts. BERMUDAS. Ugh.

He had a newspaper held up in front of him all straight-backed and proper, like he was the guy in the comic strip on the crapper or something.

When he saw I saw he just gave this grody pedersmile and I knew it wasn't like when Grant Robinson sat across from me in French II and was wearing boxers with Umbros and I saw his balls and they were red and had long blonde hairs and I told him I could see his balls because I wanted to embarass him because he was a popular dickhead who always teased fat girls. This was on purpose.

I moved to the other end of the car and got off at the next stop. I wanted to say something to the other passengers like "OMG. Did you just see the penis show?!" but I figured that's what Penis Show wanted so why give it to him.

Whoa. I just had a bad thought. It's been a while since I've had sex. Penis Show technically counts as the last wang I've seen in person. I need to go somewhere and look at wangs. Cleansing wangs. A lot of them.

Montague Friedman

He sent me an email. Unfortunately it's just spam.

But wouldn't it be cool to know someone named Montague Friedman?

He either looks like this:



or this:



or perhaps this:



I'm not sure.

THIRD ARMPIT RAINY DAY PROJECT: Take the first spam name you see in your Inbox and pair it with a photo. Post in the Comments section, eat a peanut butter sandwich, then GO FUCK AN ASTRONAUT.

The halo effect has nothing to do with the game on Xbox.

Three times in the past two weeks people have brought up Apple's iPod/iPhone campaigns and asked me to write copy in that style. I don't think they realize that 99% of iPod advertising doesn't employ words, just money shots of fresh-faced silhouettes fondling the product.

The web site doesn't have any fabulous turns of phrase. The copy ranges from huh? ("gapless playback") to zzzzz ("Now starting at $249.") to vaguely idiotic ("iPod makes an ideal companion.").

Don't get me wrong, a lot of it's good. Very good. I'm just saying I think this fixation has less to do with the writing and more to do with the product. iPods and iPhones are awesome. You could write anything and that shit will still sell.

Watch:





I just sold 1,000 iPods. What's up, Jobs? Where's my cut?

Rogue Primates, 1970s Light Sources, and America's Favorite Search Engine

The night monkey lives in the forests of Central and South America, from Panama to Paraguay to Argentina.

It does not live in lava lamps, but try running that game on a 6 year old spending the night at Katie Scafetti's.

Katie's excited to have guests. She's an only child. My sister and I are wearing new matching nightgowns with our favorite Muppets on them. Add that to sleeping in the living room (novelty!) and naturally we're riled up.

Katie's father has had it with the giggles.

"You see that lava lamp?"

We nod.

"That's where the night monkeys live. If you're not asleep by midnight, the night monkeys will come out and get you. You do not want to mess with the night monkeys, girls. I'm really serious."

He shuffles off to the kitchen, looks at the fridge without opening it, and goes back to bed.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT! WE'RE GOING TO DIE! NIGHT MONKEYS!

Under the sheets. Under the sheets. Make a tent. Grab that corner. No! Fix it! Absolutely no outside air. That's how they get in. Heather! Katie! Help me! Come on!

[10 minutes later]

Everyone's asleep. But me.

I look at the lamp. It's red and yellow with a brushed gold base. Today's lava lamps are filled with glitter, come in fun novelty shapes and generally regarded as non-threatening objects.

This one appears to be filled with pulverized cow hearts and congealed abortion.



I think I see a face. Yes, that's definitely a night monkey's face down there at the bottom. I wonder how they come out of the lava lap. Do they just sort of ooze out the bottom or does the glass shatter and they make a splashy entrance, a la the shark in JAWS? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Heather? Katie? Shit. They're sleeping.

8:45. Oh my God.
9:13. Don't worry. Don't worry. You've got until midnight.
10:45. Maybe he was just putting me on.
11:19. Sleep, Erin, SLEEP. I know. I'll make a snoring noise, like in cartoons.

I finally fall asleep sometime shortly before twelve and a lot of little baby night monkeys go to bed with empty bellies that evening.

Night monkey paranoia continues for the next few years, brought on by any sort of red glowing light. The bulb in my grandma's Christmas wreath. The numbers on the alarm clock. The mood lighting in Moy's Chinese restaurant.

Twenty years later I start on at Google, where all new hires recieve a lava lamp at orientation.

Great! I'll just put this in my drawer, next to the box of staples, two thousand business cards, and everything else I will never ever use.

Oh. Wait. Everyone's using their lava lamp. EVERYONE. Look at them. All plugged in. Lighting up cubicles like little baby strip clubs. It's going to look really bad if I don't join in.

"Look Craig, she's not using her lava lamp. I question how serious this girl is about being hip and zany."

"I agree, Jennifer. I must remember to mention this to Larry and Sergey once they take a break from filling garbage bags with diamonds."

That feeling of first-day dread was a harbinger of things to come. I didn't fit in at the G, and being uncomfortable around wax-based lighting wasn't the only reason.

I quit the company 1 year later, the day after a chunk of my stock options vested.

I sent the requisite email about keeping in touch, caught one last glimpse of my office crush who looks like an Indian Jeff Goldblum, and had a screamingly awkward goodbye party out on the terrace.

The Chief Night Monkey, the one who made me cry several times in the bathroom, the pregnant Long Island ball-buster with the 30 carat diamond ring and French-manicured toenails, did not attend.

That was huge. Enormous breach of Google etiquette. You do not miss 'optional' social events. It was weird though, her doing that actually made me like her more.

Should I take it? Should I take it? I'm emptying out my desk. They'll probably think I'm bitter and sour grapes if I don't. I should. Just for professionalism's sake. But still...



In the end it was the final scene from Poltergeist that got me. When the family checks into the hotel room because their entire dwelling has been decimated by monsters.

Just before the closing credits, there's a wide exterior shot. The door to the hotel room opens and the father pushes out the TV set.

Before, I was able to tell my 6 year old brain it was all fake. But look here. Solid proof that an adult is acting irrational and scared.

That must mean it's real.

IT'S REAL.

Like I said earlier, fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

I unplug my lava lamp/night monkey bungalow, bunch up the cord, and put it in the bottom drawer of my desk, right next to the Google business cards I will no longer never use.

here. now there.

I'm not dead. I'm moving. Next door to Allen Ginsberg's old apartment. He was apartment n, I'm apartment n+1. Current dickhead landlord who didn't bother to sweep, paint or remove the hair-covered clot of feces from the bathroom floor is being a cock and insisting that I take my 1970s color scheme walls back to white.

"But Erin, don't landlords usually paint when someone new moves in, especially if it's been a year or two since the last time they did it?"

Virginia, you always were a dumb bitch. Listen. The landlord wants ME to do it. So he doesn't have to. I went into ACE Hardware Sunday. "Gimme the cheapest primer you got." I'm doing thick, sloppy coats and splashing it all over bathroom fixtures, kitchen tile, windows, the hardwood floor. No top coat. Just primer.

I enjoy painting though. For some reason I always do it topless. OL' PAINTY TITS. I wear pants and stuff but always take off my shirt, even when it's not hot. I would make a good construction worker stereotype. I like swearing, beer, classic rock, that shirt thing I just mentioned earlier, looking at girl's asses, the whole nine.