So, I don’t know if you do this but whenever I’m driving, or more accurately, whenever I am riding along in a putrid MegaBus, and it’s all smooth sailing and open lanes I am terrified to so much as think much less say outloud “oh! we’re really making good time!” because I just know that the moment the words leave my lips we’ll come around a bend to a five car pile up and be stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic and life will be ruined allll because of me.
Perhaps I sound a tad fatalistic, but I can’t help myself. I come from a long line of neurotics with bad luck & lots of Irish Catholic guilt. All good things will surely end and when they do, it’s all our fault.
Really healthy bunch we are, mentally.
As I mentioned last week, I’ve kind of been on a roll, life-wise, and I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. Zombie bees are taking over Washington State and according to this week’s New Yorker, we’re under siege from a strain of incurable gonorrhea. Not 100% sure what’s going on there, I don’t read-read the New Yorker so much as skim the headlines so I can casually bring it up in conversation later, but you don’t have to actually read the news to know: this planet’s a sinking ship and we’re all doomed!
And yet, despite this depressing fact, good things keep happening! Well, to me anyway. Sorry if your life still sucks but boyyy, I am on fiyah!
As many of you already know, one of my recent posts was selected for Word Press’s prestigious Freshly Pressed last week, which is like being nominated for the Homecoming Court of Blogland, or so I would guess. I most certainly was never on the Homecoming Court in the real world. I’ve been extremely popular for several days now and it. has. been. AWESOME. I know I’m in a bit of a salty mood this evening but please trust that I am being genuine when I say how honored I am by the warm and positive feedback I’ve received from new and old readers alike. I am so glad you’re all here. I hope you’ll stick around and promise I’ll do my best to make it worth your while!
But first, I have to insult you just a teensy bit. You see, something happened to me last week that was even better that being Freshly Pressed. What, you ask, could be even better than spending two days fielding comments from strangers about how funny and great I am?
That’s right. Last week I spotted Her Royal Highness, Goddess of All Things, Homecoming Queen of the Universe Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter live and in the flesh. It was…she is…I…can’t. The English language does not possess the words to appropriate describe the glory that is BK. She is perfection. And then some.
Last Wednesday a few of us went to see my friend Kevin perform at UCB, a comedy theater here in Manhattan (check him out, he’s great!) and after the show, Brian and I were walking across town to catch the subway. We came to a corner at the edge of Madison Square Park that was crowded with people and blocked off with traffic barricades. On our side of the street was a group of rubberneckers and the other side was packed with media holding big cameras and those long microphones that a person less mature than myself might describe as boner shaped, all crowded around a black man in a baseball cap. We both immediately thought Jay-Z but did not want to appear racist, so kept quiet until some other gawker confirmed for us it was, indeed our boy, Young. I started to sweat.
“Do you think she’s here?? Oh GOD what if she’s here?!” I gasped, my breath quickening, my eyes attempting to see over the hordes of reporters. I was about to give up, when the crowds parted and suddenly: there she was.
Radiant. Glowing. Luminous. An angel walks among us and her name is Bay-on-say.
It was barely more than a moment before another mediahound grabbed her attention and once again blocked her from my vision but oh, that moment was enough.
I actually think the only way I survived this celeb spotting and didn’t just hyperventilate to death right there on 26th Street is because it was so quick, such a short, perfect glimpse. There is a reason we don’t stare directly at the sun for too long, it’s mesmerizing, life-sustaining light will melt our eyeballs to puddles of goo.
And so it is with Beyonce.
So you can see why I’m a little trepidatious about my recent good fortunes. I mean, once you’ve spotted Queen B there’s really nowhere up for your life to go. So I figure there are really only ways this can play out:
My life continues upward: I will meet Jon Hamm and we’ll dine on bottomless bowls of Kraft macaroni and cheese before enjoying some blissful, mutually orgasmic intercourse and then directly afterwards, as we bask in the afterglow of our lovemaking, executives from NBC will call me to announce that they’re creating a sitcom based on my life and I don’t have to do any work or anything, just move to a mansion in the Hollywood Hills which they’ve purchased for me and eat and drink wine and regale them with my stories, so they have something to base their scripts on.
Orrr, I plummet downward: I will be immediately struck down by some sort of gruesome bee-related venereal disease and die.
Or I suppose there is always a door three: My life will go on, day by day, peppered with ups and downs, pleasant highs and stormy lows and the world will turn and the grass will grow and cetera but ugh, how boring does that sound?
So, let’s all just cross our fingers things go the more Jon Hammy, cheesy route. And in the meantime, let’s watch the Queen at WERK: