Poop? Ice cream? Another Coccyx (i know my vertebrae config for the tailbone! yay, me!) or perhaps the much sought-after Cooking Bible, 'In The Kitchen with Julia Childs on Queluudes: Why's Dinner Taking So Long?'
Who knows?
But it was good times, traversing the field of music at Pitchfork-- you know, counting the disco-pops, the bad, barfed-up fashion of jogging shorts with that awful piping, and finding people who actually know what a Merkin is.
OK, so here's the abbreviated story: for several days now I've been trying to remember what a pubic wig was called. I knew it started with an 'M', but I JUST COULDN'T REMEMBER. So I'm walking around the festival going, 'Mmmmmm....??? Mmmmm!!! DAMMIT!!' It's really bugging me because it's on the tip of my tongue (the WORD not the wig, you freaks). Anyway, Lorelei decides the best way to solve my dilemma is to approach someone who looks like they'd be hip to the answer (read 'bookish type, possibly gay') and just ask. She spots a trio wherein there sits such a person. She ups and asks. The correct answer comes flying back at us with a speed and assuredness that floored me--but not from said older nerdfag guy, rather from young (YOUNG!!) still-wet-behind-the-ears cutie hetero he-boy, Phil. From Milwaukee, no less. (What other kinds of things are they teaching schoolboys up north nowadays??) Phil who, if I wasn't old enough to be his young mother, I would've had a lovely time hitting on. Cute, friendly, possessing an affection for obscure bits of knowledge...he coulda been this momma's Collegiate Jeopardy cashcow. Mmmmm...Mmmmilwaukee.
So...there it is. Ask and ye shall receive. MERKIN. Learn it. Love it. Use it. It's a 'good thing'...
See, now, Ol Effie du Hagette, the joys that await you for simply being obnoxious? (by this i mean confrontationally curious).
I'm sure I'm on many Shit Lists, but as long as none of them have the means by which to approach me with an Uzi, I spin round and round, like one of them chillens.. you know, age five, spinning round on the front lawn, getting totally high on sheer weirdness (and centripital force)...
No doubt about it...the girl loves her tongue.
4 comments:
Girl, you don't WANT to know what might come out.
Poop? Ice cream? Another Coccyx (i know my vertebrae config for the tailbone! yay, me!) or perhaps the much sought-after Cooking Bible, 'In The Kitchen with Julia Childs on Queluudes: Why's Dinner Taking So Long?'
Who knows?
But it was good times, traversing the field of music at Pitchfork-- you know, counting the disco-pops, the bad, barfed-up fashion of jogging shorts with that awful piping, and finding people who actually know what a
Merkin is.
Ah...the Merkin man...'twas a mere pup, he.
OK, so here's the abbreviated story: for several days now I've been trying to remember what a pubic wig was called. I knew it started with an 'M', but I JUST COULDN'T REMEMBER. So I'm walking around the festival going, 'Mmmmmm....??? Mmmmm!!! DAMMIT!!' It's really bugging me because it's on the tip of my tongue (the WORD not the wig, you freaks). Anyway, Lorelei decides the best way to solve my dilemma is to approach someone who looks like they'd be hip to the answer (read 'bookish type, possibly gay') and just ask. She spots a trio wherein there sits such a person. She ups and asks. The correct answer comes flying back at us with a speed and assuredness that floored me--but not from said older nerdfag guy, rather from young (YOUNG!!) still-wet-behind-the-ears cutie hetero he-boy, Phil. From Milwaukee, no less. (What other kinds of things are they teaching schoolboys up north nowadays??) Phil who, if I wasn't old enough to be his young mother, I would've had a lovely time hitting on. Cute, friendly, possessing an affection for obscure bits of knowledge...he coulda been this momma's Collegiate Jeopardy cashcow. Mmmmm...Mmmmilwaukee.
So...there it is. Ask and ye shall receive. MERKIN. Learn it. Love it. Use it. It's a 'good thing'...
See, now, Ol Effie du Hagette, the joys that await you for simply being obnoxious? (by this i mean confrontationally curious).
I'm sure I'm on many Shit Lists, but as long as none of them have the means by which to approach me with an Uzi, I spin round and round, like one of them chillens.. you know, age five, spinning round on the front lawn, getting totally high on sheer weirdness (and centripital force)...
..Tis too bad so many lose that kid-like glory.
They need to re-assess.
Actually, I DO know somebody with Uzi experience.
And she likes to say nonchalant things like, 'Oh...just an Uzi...' when questioned about what kinds of weaponry she had in her arsenal.
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