Hatin'Tuesdys.

Hi, whores.

I want to start a new feature I'll stick with for about...this week, and then never do again, because I am absolutely incapable of making a routine out of anything. I'm also incapable of driving in a straight line from one place and coming back the same route, but that's another story for another time. Ask Aly about our 20 mile bike trip! (No, don't, actually.)

It's called Hatin' Tuesdys. But you have to pronounce Tuesday "Tewsdys" like they do in the Mid-Atlantic. (Mundy, Tewsdy, Wensdy, Fursdy, Frahdy, Sa'erdey, Sun-dee - "'Hay Fred, jeet yet?' 'Nay, hon.' 'Arrite, hon, da yoozhul 'daday?' 'Yeah, BarbaJean, y'knao haow I wook ford'ta Bacun'aig Tewsdys here, cuppa coffee awsao.' 'Nay prollem, hon, heeragao.'"

And yeah, yeah, save your jokes, "But Superbee, isn't every day hating Tuesdays with you?!" OH, HA, HA, HA. No, Einstein, hating Tuesdays come only ONCE a week. The other days are Hatin' ____day. Gawsh.

Today's Hatin' Tuesdy will focus on Neil Young.


I hate Neil Young.

Why, you ask? Because he's so ugly he gives me the heebie-jeebies. I look at his stringy hair and his tiny little mouth, and then I imagine him stabbing at some fat chick's thighs with his stubby wang, and it makes me gag.

And if I can divorce myself from what he looks like, some of his songs are really pretty. I can't hear the theme song from Philadelphia without wanting to hurl myself off a tall building to my death. It's a lovely, sad, haunting song.

But when I watch him, all pudgy and unshowered, and he probably smells like damp shoes and vinegared wine and butt-cheese, and that delicate frayed, pain-wrenched voice comes out... it's dissonant. It makes me feel like someone stepped on my grave.

My aversion to Neil Young is about as sensical as my aversion to Diane Keaton. But Keaton, I can sort of stand, with her imagined pate and crouton smell... Neil Young makes me want to rip my clothes from my body and flee, shrieking into the night. I can't explain why. He makes me feel like someone's eating a peanutbutter and banana sandwich in my ear. It's not a butterknife on my spine, but more like listening to an old person eat mashed potatoes.

Ugh.

So, Neil Young, congratulations. You're this week's Hatin' Tuesdys subject.

Coming up next week: the Ends of Hotdogs, or Salami Snaps as Seumas Finneganstein, Daniel Pinkwater's character, taught us to call them.

Word of the day I like: Popsnorkle. From the Tooth-Gnasher Superflash. Yeah, you remember 'em.

Do you ever have one of those things that happens that suddenly makes you feel cheap?

Not cheap in like, "I got used, I feel so dirty," but cheap as in like, "Mother. Fucker. I can't believe I had to pay for that. That's it. I'm punished. No more (liquor)(booze)(alcohol)(Wendy's)(shoes)(beer)(wine)(expensive prosciutto)(oestra caviar)(hand-made artisan sheep's milk cheese) (jeans)(throwing money out my car window for shits n' giggles)(jeans)(jeans)(jeans)(jeans)(velvet blazers)(overpriced t-shirts)(sneakers)(booze)(totally punk rock jeans)(snacks) for me until the next pay period! No! The pay period after that, so I can re-stock my savings account! Yeah!"

Does that ever happen to you? I'm feeling cheap now. Since T. Chavarria so helpfully pointed out to me yesterday that my registration was expired since September, 2006, I've felt a little cheap. Because I had to replace my registration ($45) and because I now have to pay T. Chavarria's parking ticket in the amount of $33.00. (Incidentally, T. Chavarria - I still hope you die a painful death, for nailing me just because I drive a nice car, EVEN THOUGH MY METER WASN'T EXPIRED, I'm just letting that post simmer for a minute.) It's not a lot of money - what is that, like $78 dollars or something? Big fuckin' deal. But oh, I don't know. I feel like every time I turn around I'm plunking down fifty bucks. It's like... I can't do ANYTHING and not spend fifty bucks. A cheap night drinking in a dive bar? Fifty bucks in the first minute. Buy some pens at CVS? Fifty bucks. Go to Toys R Us to buy a kite because it's windy and I'm feeling particularly gay? Fifty bucks. Starbucks? Fifty bucks. Spare change to a homeless guy? I hand him two twenties and a ten.

I'm feeling cheap. But there are so many things to do. I'm going to the opera tomorrow. I'm sure that'll run me fifty bucks between parking and the ticket. It's like... damn. When did I lose the concept of money? Every time I go to the ATM I pull out a hundred bucks, and it lasts me two and a half days, MAX. And I still put a lot of shit on my debit card.

And how can I get my Cheap back? How can I start becoming aghast at prices again, so I buckle down and make my own shoes and spin my own clothing? How can I reinstitute a "candles only after dark and no air-conditioning"policy?

I was totally a tightwad my Freshman year in college when my parents gave me $200.00 a month in spending money. (Holy hell, how did I survive on that?!) I wish I could get back to being penny-pinchingly cheap.

I need to be. I need to stop hemmorrhaging money.

Dear People in Miami and Broward County:

Dear People in Miami and Broward Counties:

Please stop running over adorable nursery-school aged children, and killing them.

It's really depressing.

Love,

Me.