u s e y o u r h a n d s

All the Virginia Tech stuff has turned my thoughts to my former co-worker, Beau Yarbrough. A proud VT grad, Beau is a writer at a Southern California paper and shares his thoughts on the tragedy at his blog, LBY3.

So, yes, I recently read Celine Dion’s autobiography. I like shitty celeb autobios. Nothing will be better than the Hulk Hogan autobio, mainly because half of the sentences started with “Lemme tell ya, brother.”

But back to Celine! So the story starts out a few years ago, at a time when Celine was fried from constat touring, tanning, and having sex with her grandpa. They were trying to have a baby, without much success. Celine and Rene retire to their Jupiter, FL waterfront estate. And one day, Celine wades out into the ocean. And a manatee comes up to her. And they swim together. And then Celine is overcome with the feelign that she is finally pregnant. Then the magical sea cow swims away.

I’d say something about how Celine’s baby is half man/half manatee, but you already went there, didn’t you?

Seriously, though, I shit you not.

Shakeshakeshake. Hear that? shakeshakeshake What’s the sound? It’s pill time, Gs. Is there anything better than taking big giant pills with coffee? Yes, there is. And that’s taking them with wine.

I finished Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. My feelings are mixed. Although it is a wonderful book. it’s left me with this sad feeling. That I’ll never do anything as magnificent. I keep looking for the thing I do perfectly. And so far, I’m not sure that I’ve found it.

Water rings, I don’t really care about. It’s the trivets with their knobby legs and heat seeping through anyway. I can take a lot, but I’m almost at my breaking point with those fucking trivets. My feelings on tablecloths? Lukewarm. Depends on the cloth. Cotton? Sure, no problem, plus it’s washable. Those vinyl pieces of shit? No way. High-class linen? Love it, but it’s a lot of pressure. You watch those wine glasses like a fucking hawk. The best is when the cats jump on me. Their little feet, a slight pressure like a massage. Heavenly.

Rufus Wainwright at Ravinia. I will brave the vast crowds of Chardonnay-gulping white people to hear this little gay genius sing.