Let the Rivers Run

So I got the new Weezer album this weekend. I've had an on/off obsession with the world's least cohesive band since their debut dropped; my high school friend Pat sounded exactly like Rivers Cuomo and used to sing "The Sweater Song" all the time. (Pat is a Broadway performer these days, so I can only assume that he surpassed Cuomo in vocal talent at some point. Although probably not in cocaine consumption.)

Cuomo is such a marblemouth. Until a very close listen this morning, I thought their new single went, "Beverly Hills...rollin' like a sufarfaree." I thought perhaps a sufarfaree was some kind of Buddhist-chic luxury vehicle piloted by Rick Rubin.

(Alas, the actual lyric is celebrity. So much for seducing Ione Skye in saffron-upholstered reclining rear seats.)

Anyway, the Weezer album is good, and I suspect it will endear itself to me even further upon subsequent listenings. I used to strip to "Hash Pipe" almost every day, and I never got sick of that song. I'd spin on the pole so fast that the "money girls" would purse their glistening lips disapprovingly; speed and enthusiasm were discouraged in those places. Plus, I'd always forget to land facing the customer. Always land facing the customer. You don't want him to think you're using that pole for fun, do you?

I'm having a pretty bad hair day. I always overdo it with product and then my hair is the worst kind of blonde--a sticky, fluffy, '80s blonde that can't be fingercombed into slick, piece-y submission. I could do pigtails but they always look like horns, and that's too cutely self-referential for my taste.

Smoothie-flavored Skittles should not exist. They're like hardened discs of fruity blender schmutz. Besides, Skittles are just not the right medium with which to exploit the smoothie craze. What's next, wheatgrass-flavored Spree? Breastmilk-flavored Doritos? The juxtaposition of perishable freshness with essential Skittle-ness just doesn't work. I like classic Skittles, the kind in the red pouch that you spilled all over the movie theater floor when you went to see The Black Cauldron with your mom and cousins.

P.S. JENNIFER VEJVODA, nee GLOSA: Email me. This is my first plea of many to come. I can't find your number(s) and your address has too many numbers for my tiny dinosaur brain. I have to tell you something that's going to crack your ass up.