Siren Festival in Coney Island

I didn't realize until I was on the train that I actually had no idea why we were going to Coney Island.

"Hey, what are we going to see, anyway?" I asked Jojo. It might seem weird to you, but I have a policy about always saying yes for any adventure that can be traveled to on my metrocard.

"The Siren Festival."

"It's a free music thing," T-bone said. "There's going to be a metal band and some sort of French jazz psychedelic band ... and then a bunch of hipster bands that may or may not be good. I listened to the stuff on their websites, but I couldn't always tell."

The research wasn't so surprising. The 'bone works in TV, so I guess doing pre-production work just comes naturally.

When we got to Coney Island -- which is much closer to my new home in the BK than to my old place, BTW -- it wasn't crowded yet. The sun was shining. You could smell the ocean and hotdogs and people. Two stages were set up at different ends of the park. The first stage we hit was right under the Cyclone. As the bands played, people zoomed around the track, screaming.

Later, Jojo and 'bone went on the Cyclone, and I held their bags. Jojo's coworkers met us. They, like Jo, were blonde. The blondes and 'bone and I drank huge cups of beer from Nathan's and wandered around buzzed, looking at the people.

"Look at that guy," 'bone said, pointing to a dude who was asleep against a barricade. "I'm pretty sure he's on smack."

"Look at that girl," I said. "She's why I don't wear shorts."

We saw 857 tattoos, two couples of shockingly mismatched size (two squares in hipster bingo for 8-foot tall guy and 4-foot tall girl), a five year old boy with a full-on, two-foot tall, dyed-green mohawk, and more babies than I'd care to count. At festivals like this, you realize that the majority of mankind is not so pretty to look at -- or, at the very least, that it is inclined to wear unfortunate pleated shorts that don't do it any favors.

We stayed all day, leaving after the Scissor Sisters and trying not to pass out on the train. I lost my lip liner and my sense of proportion, but not my bankcard, phone or wallet, so I felt that I came out ahead. All in all, a wonderful day.

The Ma Smash Point of View

Me: "Well, I dunno. I mean, my last shrink used to say..."

Ma Smash: "Oh, shrinks. What do they know? Psychics are right just as often, and they cost less!"

Me: [Crickets.]

Server Migration Hoodoo

Thank cripdiddy Christ, the server migration is over. I woulda warned you about it, only I never open any mail from my hosting company because I'm stupid. So I didn't find out until I went to update my blog and then I was like, huh, dang, this doesn't seem to be working. I wonder if I have any mail from my hosting company? And then I couldn't understand the changes they needed me to make, because I think that the Internets are run by elves who live in a hollow tree.

Anyway, we're back!

MySpace, YourSpace

All of a sudden, I'm getting 1100 messages a day on the ol' MySpace. Most of them are from bands I don't know, which means that I delete them. (Come on: I know it's a promotional tool and all, but do I really need 15 pages of "friends" I've never met?) The rest are from dudes. Here's a random sampling:

hay sexy r u single i am!

greetings from nepal! i am like to move united states. is you status single now? i would like very much to meet. xo amir.

Pardon Myself,Excuse me, if you were busy,but after viewing your page taken a liken to what i see & seein what i like.Leaves me with no choice but to speak my peace. PS. I READ YOUR PAGE... BUT YOU KNOW SHIT HAPPENS AND STATS VARY,AND I DON`T KNOW IF HOW MUCH YOU UPDATE YOUR PROFILE...

Ah, MySpace. Without you, the Internets might have left their porn-y teen years far behind.

Bodega Boys

Me: (To the cashier at my local bodega.) "Do you have Kotex? Or any kind of pad?"

Bodega Boy: (Standing beside the counter, almost permanently. He's maybe 16, hasn't got shit to do, and is talking to the cashier aimlessly.) "Shit! You can't ask for that here! You got to go to Key Foods!"

Me: "Why?"

Bodega Boy: "Cuz ... uh, shit man! That's gross!"

Cashier: "In the far aisle. Juan will get it for you."

(After some struggle with the tall-shelf-grabby-thing, I slap my Kotex down on the counter. Bodega Boy looks pained.)

Bodega Boy: "You don't gotta slap it down like that."

Me: "Oh, yes I do."

Bodega Boy: "Shit, man, why?"

Me: "Because my uterus is shedding huge tangled chunks of bloody tissue, and I need napkins to absorb the flow."

Bodega Boy: "Shit!"

Me: (Leaning in confidentially. Almost flirtatiously.) "Every one of these napkins is just waiting to catch a giant bloody clot of uterine lining."

Bodega Boy: (Crickets. Shock shock, horror horror. It's clear he'll stay a virgin until he's 36.)

Cashier: (Smiling. Enjoying himself immensely.) "Good night!"

Overheard at the Airport

"I have no booze, nothing. From now on, I'm travelling with at least two flasks. (Pause.) Well, we've been delayed three hours."

Please note that this was not said by me, nor will I propose marriage to this person. Mostly because he was wearing sandals and a bandana around his head. Otherwise, it would've been a close thing. I like a man with a solid appreciation for a beverage, and if he's prescient enough to bring his own, so much the better.

Now's when I should probably point out that I finally caved in and took that Xanax I've been saving. Delays freak me out. Airplanes freak me out. Being delayed while waiting for an airplane for the third time in a week is definitely freaking me out. It was high time for chemical assistance, is all I can say.

Hubley's Law

If I am scheduled to fly, it will rain. This rain will result in a delay of 4700 hours. This is known. The end.