…but I’ll never get out of the kitchen. That’s where the food is!

I’m going to see Madonna’s “Confessions Tour” tonight, on the hottest day of the summer. Wait for the awesome part: Madonna won’t allow air conditioning at Madison Square Garden because it affects her singing voice. She’s just not havin’ it with the ventilation. Apparently people at her last concert here were removed on stretchers. That sounds like so much fun.

I’m personally going to the show more for the spectacle than Madonna’s singing voice, but props to her for being a bad enough bitch to have the power to do this. “This” meaning possibly killing thousands of her adoring fans. I don’t function in heat, so even if there are only a few fatalities at the show, you better believe I’ll be one of them.

Other possible tombstone taglines:

“Come on, Get Together for your last photo with Annie”
“Sorry”
“In the evidence of her brilliance” (HA!)
“She Loved New York”
“Forbidden Love: Were Annie and Cheetos supposed to be together?”
“There’s only so much you can learn in one place”
“How High? High as hell.”
“Heart Failed (in the Back of a Concert)”

—

That was totally fun.

If you’re not rolling on the floor laughing your ass off at my tombstone taglines, rest assured: it’s because all but one of them are references to “Confessions on a Dance Floor.” It’s cool if you didn’t know that. We can’t all die at a Madonna concert, you know. People need to choose their own battles and just go for the gold. Just DIE already!

Anyway, a final farewell to all. I love you.

(Anyone else digging this centered text?)

I’m melting… just watch me burn.

I can’t take my eyes off of this photo of Liza with a z:

This news clipping was posted prominently on TG’s fridge. To people who aren’t into Liza (and that’s who I was until Arrested Development came out on DVD) this may not strike the funnybone. Still, you should give it a go. Just look at her.

She’s doing a high kick.

Supporting herself against a roller coaster car.

Filled by people who don’t care that she’s there and might not even know who she is.

Her lower shin — or gym sock — is showing.

Look at her face.

And now the GO GIRL graphic.

If you aren’t falling somewhere on the spectrum between slightly chuckling and keeling over in your seat dying, I’m not sure I want anything to do with you.

Also in that completely fascinating apartment: an old-school Nintendo box and fabulous games like Anitcipation (which I owned, or maybe stole from one of the babysitters) and one I’d never heard of but should have been playing all my life, called Burgertime.

What is Burgertime? A tad hazy under the influence, we couldn’t figure out how to hook up the system. We honestly gave up a few seconds in, after pulling the TV back and facing two different-colored wires. The red and yellow ones. I know, I don’t deserve to exist.

So I didn’t learn anything about Burgertime. It’s almost better that way. The game was probably some clumsy waiter trying and failing to get everyone their burgers on time… it probably had a bunch of extra elements (like the random egg?!) that made little to no sense. But people getting their burgers on time: this is just the sort of thing I find important. Not record time or anything like that. Just receiving a burger the way you ordered it. It’s a big deal, and if that’s all this game was about — if the service of fast food is seriously the bottom line — then I truly respect its creators for their unique, if seemingly narrow, sense of priority.

Can someone please tell me what Burgertime was really like? I’m desperate to know… and to buy my own copy on eBay and then, oh my god, puh-lay it!

—

Audibly Laughing (AL) at this point: After a 0.3-second Google search, I discovered that Burgertime was soooo much less advanced than I gave it credit for. Which almost makes it even more beautiful.

Under “Trivia” it says, “In Japan, most fast food restaraunts offer the option of a fried egg on hamburgers, hence why one of the enemies in the game is an egg.” Mr. Egg, in fact.

I’m dying. If it wasn’t already the friggin’ morning, I’d worry that I’d wake the neighbors up.

I took this yesterday at the street fair in Park Slope:

Let’s be sure to address the four key points that make this a super shot.

1) Spongebob is gesturing to no one (maybe me?)

2) That little girl is overjoyed that she’s going to hug a strangely 6′3″ Elmo in under a second. Her brother’s like, “calm down, loser.”

3) Spongebob Squarepants and Elmo are playing a street fair in 90-degree heat, seemingly for no other reason than to delight the likes of me… and kids. They weren’t making tips… and even if they were, where would they put them? Elmo doesn’t have any pockets. Maybe Spongebob could stuff them in the g-string you know he wears under those slacks.

4) That woman on her cell phone HATES me right now. “Who do you think you are?” she’s wondering. Don’t worry, homegirl. I’m cool. I’m a blogger.

I’ve had an eternal fascination with the people who dress up as children’s characters. From shows like CSI and a made-for-TV movie whose name escapes me (Hickey Mouse, maybe?), I’ve been made to think they’re all pedophiles who use their furry, googly-eyed exteriors as their “in” to freely molest kids. There might be a small percantage of truth to that, but in general it’s not fair. Either way, it’s hilarious to consider the discrepancy between how the person looks in costume (100% fun and cute) and how he probably looks in person (~100% like someone you probably wouldn’t want rubbing your daughter’s back). I assume based on common sense that most parents wouldn’t let the non-costumed guy anywhere near their kids, so it’s amusing to think that all it takes is a somewhat convincing alterego.

But what if it’s not a well-known character? What if there’s just a guy dressed up in a banana suit or a massive walking sneaker, coffee mug, or bottle opener that claims to be a major cartoon character you’ve just never heard of? Are we supposed to act kindly towards characters just because they’re in costume? I’m serious. I think we’re more likely to smile and be polite to a person on the street dressed up as something than just a person on the street dressed as a human. If they’re putting forth the effort, for whatever reason, they deserve at least a lingering stare and slight smirk from me. It’s the least I can do.

Speaking of Spongebob, check out what TG and I found splattered on his Clinton Hill doorstep late Friday night:

Poor Patrick! He’s not even pink anymore. Not even a hint.

I eventually took a taxi home from the Hill to the Slope, and it took us 15 minutes of hanging out on Atlantic Avenue at 4:30 am to find a ride. But boy was it worth it! I took the greatest cab ride of my life that night. It was a minivan, which is always a plus because I can spread out and thereby infest a greater surface area than usual. The driver wore this rockin’, almost metallic-looking collared shirt, with a vest. And he was playing jazz at what most people would consider to be a deafening volume, but which I found perfect. He even had it blasting out of a pimped-out stereo system that definitely didn’t come with the car. It was one of those digital ones with purple and red neon lettering, and I could just barely make out the words “Track 03.” This guy had his own DRIVING MIX. I bet there were even multiple volumes!

I will never forget this ride. He also may never forget me, as I made a point of explaining to him the many reasons I was obsessed with his cab. I remember not wanting to get out until he was convinced just how much I loved his car! “No, I don’t think you really understand.” (Why the hell would he not undestand?) No matter, though. He was loving it. I cannot believe I didn’t have my camera.

Take a look at this. If you’re not into “reading” (which would be ironic), I’ll summarize: according to CNN, pregnant women across the nation decided to delay the births of their assumedly non-evil spawn because the date was 6/6/06. This is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard in my life.

Here’s a sample for those too lazy to click:

A Chicago, Illinois, obstetrician, Dr. Scott Pierce, performed a C-section on Monday on a woman who didn’t want her son to be teased about his birthday and called names like Damien. Damien is the lead character in the movie “The Omen,” about a sinister boy who turns out to be the Antichrist.

That entire paragraph was inane, but let’s focus on this: kids never remember or even know their friends’ birthdays. It’s like a rule. I still don’t know a bunch of mine — which probably just means I’m a bad friend, but hear me out. Who cares when someone’s birthday is?

Not to mention, school’s out by June anyway, so the bullies who could potentially tease your afflicted progeny about his birthday probably enjoy his general company little enough to steer clear of him during the entire summer vacation. Think about it.

And besides, by the time your Devil baby’s birthday is “recognized” by his friends, he’ll probably be an able-minded teenager (assuming those exist — I certainly never qualified) and not care anymore. For shits and giggles, let’s call him “Damien.”

Damien is a sinister boy living in the year 2022. He’s sinister because pop culture continued its trend of flushing itself down the toilet ever since his birth and he can’t stand it anymore. His classmates’ boobs are already fake, he still has to pretend he’s into rap, and Jessica Simpson CONTINUES to infest the national radar with her complete and utter foolitude, only instead of slightly impersonating a duck, like she enjoyed toying with in 2006 with her big fat lips and wig-like ‘do, she is now an actual human-size duck — and the most profitable attraction the San Diego Zoo has seen in decades. People love it with that quacker!

Now I’m terrified, and it has nothing to do with the numbers.

“When I tell people my birthday, the ones who are really brave give me the look and say, `That’s scary!’ ” said [newly over-the-hill Jill] Haub, a practicing Christian. “And I say, ‘Actually, I have an extra 6 — born on 6-6-66 — so that’s four sixes. I’m good, not evil.’”

Wrong, Jill. You are evil for making such a moronic statement. I’ll see you in hell, where you are unquestionably headed due to your unfortunate birthday.

Just kidding, of course. I think having a 6-6-6 birthday would be cool! Our massive wheat-colored sectioinal sofa arrived this morning, and for the last two weeks we’ve been nothing but psyched about its delivery date. “Yes! Evil couch!” or something more creative was likely uttered. I don’t remember because I was eating. Yes. For the entire two weeks.

Oh look: Ladytron has a message for babies born yesterday:

This is happening
For your pleasure
At your leisure
Use your evil
When you want.

[Click for rad video.]

Just realized elementary school never gets out by 6/6. Oops. Or does it?

Okay, slight problem. I will really miss gazing at Mischa Barton. I’m not kidding.

Don’t get me wrong — I thought Marissa was vile. But I still appreciated her face, frame, and hair. Who wouldn’t? She’s a dream. The O.C. made it so easy for people like me to have a relatively good excuse to stare at Mischa for an hour (the show was usually all about her — agonizing, but easy on the eyes) while exerting the least possible amount of effort. (Did you guys know that? Watching TV is easy.) What are we supposed to do now? Google image search that bitch? Rent The Sixth Sense? See whatever awful movie she makes next in all her emancipated glory? Watch avideo of her pushing Nicole Richie around in a shopping cart?

Fat chance, Mischa. Yeah, that’s right: Fat. Eat a pancake.

Someone should market a Mischa Barton slideshow of sorts. Not a calendar, nothing like that. Just basic photographs of Mischa in expensive, cool clothes — a slideshow that would change maybe every few hours. (But only when it was switched on, like a desk lamp. It’s not like I’d look at it all the time. Just whenever I wanted to).

Or, if I was the richest person ever, I could hire her to just sit in front of me, or show up wherever I happen to go. Like if I’m walking down the street, she’ll be walking the other way. No big deal, just “Oh, there’s Mischa.” Yet again. Just my luck!

She’d always have to be expertly styled — that’s the catch. I’d want her to do what she always did on the show: make me feel dowdy, large, and hopelessly unfashionable. I don’t want to miss out on this now that Marissa’s dead, and I fear that I might. Who will I love/hate to idolize now?

Nope. I’m voting slideshow instead of in-house existence. Seeing her in person — seeing anyone in person, actually — would be incredibly awkward. That’s not even what I want. Excluding special cases, I typically don’t like having to deal with actual human life. I’m confident that I’d never want to talk to Mischa, or do anything with her. I just want to be able to stare at her if I feel like it. A slideshow of her, looking good in different outfits. It’s not so much to ask.

This might be the greatest thing I’ve ever composed. And it doesn’t even involve writing. I am foraying into different mediums. I’m a MEDIUM HOPPER! The project involves the “Dance Friday” segment on the CBS Morning News in NYC. If you’re as ridiculous as me, it should keep you entertained for at least a few hours. Or maybe 3:57. This is an educated guess.

PLEASE be patient while it loads. I promise it’s worth it!

Apologies in advance for horrible digital-camera image quality.