Is this the party to whom I'm speaking?

This journal entry topic has been specifically requested. Yes, sometimes I do play requests.

My cell phone doesn't have a button cover like my other one did (I don't even think they make phones with a cover anymore, unless they fold in half). The keylock doesn't work the way I want either -- it only works when you turn the power on, you key-in the code, then the buttons work. Until then, you can't do anything, like receive phone calls. So it's sort of pointless. Plus, I've forgotten the code, so I fear turning it on and being locked out of my own phone.

But, I really need to buy some sort of case I think, because I have a tendency to accidentally call people. Which usually isn't too horrible -- they get a voicemail with some muffled noises that hopefully doesn't last too long. One time though I recorded part of a phone conversation on someone's voicemail that involved a long, involved rant/ridiculing of someone's poetry. Luckily the person who received the voicemail agreed with me on the topic, but it could have been ugly, particularly since said poet is in my cell phone address book.

This morning was a first -- I accidentally made an obscene phone call. I was busy, um, accidentally oversleeping which is why I was late to work (yeah, that's it), when suddenly I was informed by the other party in the room that the phone in my pocket -- I was halfway to getting dressed when I interrupted myself for a not-so-quick-quickie -- was on and ON. The mechanical woman's voice was asking us if I wanted to re-record the message. Yes! I quickly pressed the right number, re-recorded a blank message and sent it. Then I checked my log to see who was the recipient of this lovely accident -- none other than Mr. nineinchlovely. I was amused and relieved. While I would be slightly embarassed at having him hear some private muffled noises of sexual activity, there are MANY more worse recipients of such voicemail who would be much more traumatic to my psyche, including my parents, my therapist, or even random business contacts related to DJing.

What also cracked me up is that when I ended the call, my phone had been on for six minutes. That means a hella long message had previously gotten recorded before I deleted it and started over.

So for those of you who's phone number is in my cell phone, you've been warned. I'm not trying to harass you. It's just an accident.

Or maybe I should just make sure I'm better about removing my pants in the future.

In other news, as you may have guessed by the level of activity I was engaging in this morning, my back is doing MUCH better. It's still uncomfortable to be sitting at this damn desk at work, but at least I was able to wake up and get out of bed without feeling like a hot sword was stabbing me in the back this morning.

Show me how you do that trick, the one that makes me scream, she says.

As if I needed more reasons to love my best friend, he gave me a few last night -- first, by accompanying me to the vet and being sympathetic after I had to pay the bill. First off, she was due for her annual check-up in a week or two, so we went ahead and got everything done, in addition to investigating the worm problem. She tested negative for worms actually, but they gave her medication anyway. She passed everything else with flying colors, got a clean bill of general health, and enough heartworm medication to last through the end of 2003.

I, however, did not get any treatment for my heart when I had to shell out three hundred bucks for everything. Writing about it now makes my blood itch and breathing short and spastic. I mean, I knew it was going to cost money. I had anticipated about $150, which seemed reasonable though still more than I could techinically afford, at least until payday next week. But I had resolved that it would be okay, since I was also getting paid for a couple DJ gigs in the next few days. But when she read off the total, my stomach hit the floor. On the way out the door, I was thinking about how some people would describe this experience as being bent over and fcked from behind without lube. The thing is, I rather enjoy being bent over and fcked from behind and soemtimes even have fantasize about this happening sans lube (though I wouldn't do this in real-life because, um, ow?!), so instead it felt to me like having my intestines pulled out. You don't need these right? Let me just jerk them out and snip off a few feet for myself. Or maybe it's more like being punched in the gut. Whatever.

Don't get me wrong. I love my dog. The numerous photos of her in my workspace are evidence of this fact. I know that preventative healthcare is still cheaper than paying for curing any of these things they're vaccinating against (not to mention her possible loss of life). And I know that barring any accidents and emergencies (mad knocking on wood), I won't have to pay this much again for about a year. But damn, it still hurt.

It might be time for another round of cleaning out my CD's and DVD's and making a trip to the record shops. Also, I'm not opposed to selling myself, so if anyone is interested in shelling out for some sexual favors, please let me know. Oh my goodness, I just realized how faggy drama that is. I'm the strange equivalent of the Lifetime television movie mother who strips to earn money for their kid -- I give blowjobs to pay for my dog's distemper and rabies shots.

Oh, and the other reason I love Damon after last night? He burned me a fabulous 2-CD set with requests for my gig tomorrow night, in addition to some amazing bonus cuts, including the best songs from the soundtracks to both Breakin' and Saturday Night Fever. Listening to this music helps me forget how broke I am, as well as giving me some great ideas for spinning.

Get on my left, cause girl, you ain't right.

1. The man who invented the laugh track died this week. While I can appreciate the invention as a technological advancement, I will be pouring no liquor out for the man who significantly contributed to ruining people's ability to discern what's actually funny on their own without it being spoonfed through audio cues.

2. I'm no fan of Nelly (though I don't hate on those who are, particularly the ones on my livejournal friends page). I will admit he has talent as a pop musician, but as an influential hip-hopper, no such credit will be given at this juncture. Having said that, I'm desperately in love with the song Pimp Juice. I actually suspect it was ghostwritten by someone else, a theory supported in part because of Snoop's presence in the video. Which reminds me of my favorite juicy tidbit regarding ghostwriting -- Dr. Dre's "Forget About Dre" was, at least in part, penned by Jay-Z. Ah, the ironing is delicious.

3. Further proof that I have no understanding and a very loose grasp on house music and why it's important or good: I've read all these things about the recent remixes of Yoko Ono's Walking on Thin Ice. As a big Yoko fan, I was curious to hear them. I don't get it. It's the um-cha um-cha um-cha house beat with occasionally bits of her vocals spliced in. It's nine minutes of um-cha um-cha um-cha um-cha and maybe 45 seconds of her song spread out over it (Ice! um-cha um-cha um-cha Ice! um-cha um-cha um-cha Ice!). I don't understand um-cha um-cha um-cha um-cha and why/how people dance to it. Maybe because I don't often take ecstasy and dance shirtless in a crowd of naked torsos. Maybe I'm not really a gay man. Maybe my desire for having sex with women should have tipped me off to this idea sooner. Or maybe I just have too much music in my soul which reduces my tolerance for what other's constitute as "having a beat" or what's truly an original electronic composition. Having said this, I'll still probably play this remix at the end of the night tomorrow when I'm running low on creativity and need a bathroom break. Either that or the nine minute Dido remix.

4. I haven't seen A Mighty Wind yet. This is so me. I'll wait anxiously for months or years for a project like a movie or album to come out, then when it's released, I make no effort to see it. I think in part I know I'll probably see it once, maybe twice in the theater, plus will buy it on DVD later and see it several more times, so what difference does it make to see it opening weekend? But still, I hate some of the people coming up to me and telling me how funny it is and how I need to see it. Mthafcker, I brought you on board the Christopher Guest train so don't be trying to tell me what I already know as if you magically discovered it.

5. I'm such a bitchy pop culture whore.