Since I’m independently wealthy and don’t need to do actual work, I find myself with a lot of spare time on my hands. In fact, I am one of those ladies who lunches. These meals, generally taken with friends of my ilk, last hours, sometimes even days, and involve lots of sparkling convo and bubbly alcohol.
Anyway, while I was returning from one of these epic lunches to my office, which is really just the place where I keep all my pencils, I noticed there was a very small house planted in City Hall Park. I thought it might be a domicile of one of the many soot-covered transients who make their home in our fair green space. However, upon further examination, I discovered that the house was not in fact part of some pop-up Hooverville, but rather it was Art. With a capital “a.”
This is what my new home looks like.
I cannot tell you how excited I am. OK, I’ll tell you. On Sept. 1, in the year of our lord two thousand niner, Fred Phelps, the hate-spewing sign-monger from Kansas, will be gracing us with his presence here in the Green Mountain State. Well, he’ll probably just be sending his minions, and by minions I mean his toothy daughter Shirley and her umpteen inbred children. They’re coming to protest our little state for crimes against a wrathful God or some such nonsense.
This is what hilarity looks like.
Here’s a little background on Mr. Phelps (no relation to human fish cum mad toker Michael Phelps) and his Westboro Baptist Church. Apparently God visited Phelps and was all like, “Yo son, what’s wrong with this world? Dudes are doing other dudes and it goes against my will ‘n’ shit.” And Phelps was all like, “Oh, word, homes. Guys screwing other guys in the poopshoot ain’t cool. I gotta do sumpin’ about this.” And God was all like, “Dawg, you need to represent me on Earth. Ain’t nobody down there listening to me.” And Phelps was all like, “God/Jesus/the holy spirit, I feel you. You can count on me.” Then he started making crazypants signs that say God Hates Fags and Thank God For AIDS and other awesome stuff like that. Sign Guy Steve totally ripped them off.
I just got off the phone with documentarian and Dartmouth College “Visionary-in-Residence” Liz Canner, with whom I was speaking about her provocative new flick called “Orgasm, Inc: The Strange Science of Female Pleasure.” If I can get my mind out of the gutter long enough, I intend to write about her film for Seven Days.
This is a picture of my favorite new drug.
Now generally, I’d have to snark a bit about yet another media offering called “Such and Such, Inc.,” but in Canner’s case, the title is appropriate. Her movie is essentially a multi-year study on big pharma’s attempts to create a female sexual problem so that they can invent and market a drug to fix it. Basically, drug companies are trying to medicalize orgasm issues to make heaps of cash off of women who, uh, can’t get it up?Interesting, because I’m pretty sure if I can’t haul my ass to O-town, it’s not because my lady bits aren’t working right. It’s more like I’m thinking about the dirty dishes in the sink, or the piece I have to finish writing, or the fact that there are cobwebs strung from the ceiling like streamers. Being distracted is different than having a syndrome, a condition or a disease. But enough about me.
It’s been a while since I typed out a post just for you. I know I’ve been double-dipping lately- slapping stuff on this site that I’ve written for my new employer, Seven Days. In the daily newspaper business from whence I came, we call that “repurposing” or “reverse publishing.” If I were you- and thankfully I’m not- I would think this is pretty cheap on my part. And you’d be right. But Seven Days is working my fingers to bloody nubs and I don’t have time to do everything.
You can take comfort though in the knowledge that this post is just for you. Don’t get too excited- you haven’t read it yet. I’m going to tell you a little story about a farm auction I attended a couple days ago for work. If that doesn’t pique your interest, I’m not sure what will.
On Wednesday I hopped in the Vibrator and tootled on up to the little hamlet of West Glover in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. I was heading to the dispersal of the Borland Farm, a 400-acre dairy farm with 140 head that was going out of business due to our economy being in the crapper. Oh, and because corporate scumbags have sold their souls to keep prices of milk at rock-bottom levels, effectively screwing families like the Borlands in the poopshoot.