violently unoriginal

One of the downsides to thinking you're original is that you're often irrationally crushed when someone else can explain your life better than you can. Case in point? Watching Annie Hall was a bit of a devastating experience for me, as Woody Allen had aptly summarized, scorned, and spat out all meaning to my life and aspirations in what was for me a 90-minute jaw drop. Anyhow, these opportunities don't come often, but I've discovered yet another testament to my existence in the paper this morning: "Oh, Fine, You're Right. I'm Passive-Aggressive." And now, I guess I subscribe to pop psychology too.

Thanks for the good wishes, all. I took them to heart and decided to squander the full fury of my graduate stipend on shoes and a haircut. The haircut? Awful, short, and summarily removed the shrubbery that had been (albeit unsuccessfully) hiding my hairless prarie. Anyhow, I fear my bald jokes are now about as old as my swing voter jokes -- just still in denial (on both counts). In any case, as my hair thins, the hairstylists have gone from recommending mousse (preserves volume) to recommending nothing but wax (unclear -- adds body?).

The shoes? Brown adidas. The eminent mistress of high fashion, Rachana, detests the notion that I would so thoughtlessly subscribe to mass culture. But, you know, folks, it's hard work to spend your life finding Starbucks alternatives, and watching Charlie Rose instead of Entertainment Tonight -- somedays, I'm just in the mood for schlock. I'm learning to settle with the notion that I am a credit card that's tracked, and my collective consumerism is just part of a greater demographic of non-WASP, heathen 18-24 male with some post-graduate education.

And, on a lighter note, I finally figured out the origin of the phrase "chip on one's shoulder."

And, on a useful note, I've discovered this, the wonderful alternative to cellphone 411's.

And, on a useless note, I've discovered this, the inevitable collapse of my future in dating.