THE GREAT GADFLY:

Wigs On Fire

I think my downstairs neighbors Zod & Ursa are going over the stoney end. They've been MIA all weekend, save for the concerned-looking woman who repeatedly came by and laid on the buzzer so long that the buzzer button eventually got stuck in the front door panel and buzzed into infinity until I finally had to go downstairs and pry it out with a nail file. Then there's the matter of a sign stuck on their apartment door by the landlord, requesting in big black block letters that they get their couch off the back balcony. I think they've either been sucked back into the Phantom Zone or else they've descended into the seventh level of mental squalor, like at the end of that "Dead Ringers" movie where they just lay around in bed eating Doritos and screwing until they expire in a gruesome lump of gluttony.

Or they could just be dancing at a really long hardcore rave.

Oh, I renewed my lease this weekend. The bastard landlord upped the rent by twenty bucks, as he does every year. If I wind up staying in residence at the Spumoni Shack for a long time, I think I will attempt haggling with him over the yearly rent increase. And anyway, for two years I've lived without an oven. WITHOUT AN OVEN! And for most of my FIRST year in the Spumoni Shack, I lived without a refrigerator...I had to make due with a dorm fridge until my constant braying made the landlord's ears bleed and he had no choice but to lavish me with a smelly "new" used refrigerator....which now, 6 boxes of baking soda and a year and a half or so later, works like a dream.

Anyway, yeah. An oven would be nice. One can only live on boiled, fried and microwaved foods for so long. I think maybe the oven actually works just fine, but it's a gas oven and the pilot isn't lit and I'm afraid if I tried to light it I'd ignite a fireball or accidentally commit suicide like those people who stick their heads in the oven, bang their heads against the top and pass out and die. Yes, the oven could be just fine. It's more that I fear it and would rather my landlord risk the fireball than me.

My home sounds like quite the hellhole, but really it's not. From the minty green kitchen to the spumoni-striped walls to the disco bathroom, it's all quite worth the hassle at the end of the day.

I'm going to see Zwan tonight in a town called NORMAL. I don't know anything about Illinois, you know. After all, I don't live in Illinois - I live in Chicago. The rest of the state is a mystery to me, so I'm at turns fascinated and horribly afraid of what this so-called "Illinois" holds in its dank midwestern maw. Also, I might spontaneously combust if I set foot in a place called NORMAL. Fortunately, I will be in deliciously abnormal company, so at worst, there'll be flames a-plenty.

I'm so happy that Sydney Bristow got dressed up like Madonna in that cowboy video and rode a mechanical bull in a Moscow honky-tonk last night...not to mention her Betsy Johnson-meets-MacGyver trick with turning a sheath of contact paper into a miniskirt. I think she always travels with a wig in her purse, no matter where she goes. That's a good policy, actually. How many times have you left the house and realized "Oh crap, I really need a long blonde fall right now - I'm SCREWED." See?

Everything in my home smells like lemon and pebbles. Actually, this morning everything smelled like cigarettes - which is odd, considering Zod & Ursa are missing and there's nobody around in the building to throw all-night cigarette parties. But after a few aggressive spritzes, it was back to smelling like lemons and pebbles.

I listened to Simian's "Chemistry Is What We Are" last night. It lulled me to sleep. Difficult music is soothing.

I saw commercials last night for TWO new sitcoms about wacky slob dads, their unrealistically hot wives, and their street-smart, precocious offspring. I think the slob dad show people should go into a battle for dominance with the reality TV show people, to decide once and for all which boring ubiquitous genre should ultimately dictate over network television. Of course, I think every TV show should feature people wearing wigs and kicking each other in the head all the time, with each episode ending in a nuclear explosion in the desert.

I bought condiments this weekend. I will dip anything into a jar of sweet and sour sauce. ANYTHING. A carrot. A corn chip. A wig. A wacky slob dad. A Russian mechanical bull. ANYTHING.

So think about that.