JP McLennon & Alice go to town

Act 1:
JP: So, ah, I saw some boobs the other day.
Me: O, really? Sounds like fun.
JP: I didn't even have to work. I just got them. Like a present at the end of a long day.
Me: Well, happy birfday to you, JP.
JP: Yeah, it was great.
Me: So, then what'd you do?
JP: What do you mean? I looked at them.
Me: Well, I'm presuming they were with someone, and that someone probably wanted something more than for you to just look at them.
JP: I dunno. What was I supposed to do, take them out? I mean, they were already out.


Act 2:
Alice: So, I gotta tell you what happened the other day.
JP: God, you're going to actually tell that story?
Alice: Yeah, well, it has to be told. It's fermenting inside me like cheap wine.
JP: That's because you're drinking cheap wine.
Alice:So, anyways. The other night, I'm out with Doleman, and as we're going into a club, I end up chatting up these two hot chicks, who were not all that hot, but were drunk as hell and from Toronto.
Me: So basically, you end up chatting drunk tourists?
Alice: Yeah, anyways. So, I convince them to skip out on the club and hang out with me at a bar.
Me: What about Doleman?
Alice: Who? Are you going to let me tell this story or what?
Me: ...
Alice: So anyways, we end up at [Dive Bar], and I'm sitting there with a pair of hot, trashed girls from Toronto in my arms. And of course I excuse myself to put out the JP-signal.
JP: I just want to point out that it was a Wednesday night, and 12:30.
Alice: Yeah, totally. And of course McLennon doesn't want to come out.
JP: But I did. I want to point that out. 12:30 on a school night. And I'm getting dressed and heading uptown.
Alice: Boo hoo hoo. So, of course it takes McLennon forever to get out there.
JP: And by the time I do...
Alice: Yeah, so by the time he does, we're totally trashed, and ready to take it onto the dancefloor.
JP: I knew I shoulda stayed home. But I want to point out what a good friend I am. And that I went out onto the dancefloor. Sober.
Alice: (turns to JP) Seriously, man. I owe you for that.
JP: Not as much as what you owe me for what happened next.
Me: Why? What happened next?
Alice: So, there we are, the only people on this dance floor in the middle of this bar, on a Wednesday night, with a couple of trashed Torontonians.
JP: So, nothing new, is what he means.
Alice: And we're squeezing in, and I'm reaching out, just enough to show interest. And then, bingo. She takes my hand.
Me: So, you're on the dancefloor holding ha--
Alice: Wait. I'm not finished. All of the sudden, after we've been holding hands and dancing, the girls move off. As in, off the dancefloor.
Me: Okay, so? Did you follow them?
Alice: Um, no. Because JP and I were STILL ON THE DANCEFLOOR, HOLDING HANDS.
Me: And all that time, neither of you wondered that the girl's hand you were holding wasn't weirdly big and hairy?
Alice: ...
JP: We have pretty girly hands.
Alice: Actually, JP, you've got pretty soft hands.
JP: Nivea. And not so bad yourself, Alice.
Me: Ahem.
JP: Wanna hear the post-script? So, Alice go upstairs to clean himself off before throwing up the white flag, and guess who he sees? Yep, the Canadians, literally making the rounds. One lap after another.
Alice: Can you believe it? I mean, wtf. We were with them all night!
Me: Um, it was probably the holding hands with each other that tipped them off...

JP (turning to me): This better not go in your blog.


Act 3:
Transcription of IMs from Alice throughout the day:

(11:01:43) Hey, I'm going out with this chick today. It'll be great.
(11:01:43) She's hot!
(11:02:21) Yeah, we're meeting up around 6:30 for an early
(11:02:21) dinner. Can't wait. I'm wearing date clothes. Did I
(11:02:21) tell you she's hot?
(12:52:35) I should get something for lunch. But I don't want to
(12:52:35) bloat myself out before this date. She's really hot.
(2:13:27) We've been IMing a bit. She's hot and seems cool.
(4:59:02) I'm starting to fade a bit. I'm going to grab a coffee so
(4:59:02) I don't fall over during the date. It would suck to nod
(4:59:02) off during a hot date.
(5:11:32) WTF! She just txted me to say she can't make it!
(5:11:32) Some work thing. This sucks!
(5:13:53) You're right. So I'm going to text her and ask if she can
(5:13:53) do later. I mean, how late can work go?
(5:25:18) I haven't heard back from her. What's the deal?
(5:49:01) I still haven't heard from her, but I just left a
(5:49:01) phone message.
(6:11:44) Whatever.
(6:34:01) Yeah, I'm going out with JP for drinks. Later.

from TC to me to you

extravagance

it’s not a matter of things—jewelry in velvet boxes, exclusive seats at the theatre, plane tickets. anyone can offer up that which is bought and sold. yes, I enjoy the private cruises in the harbor, personal dinners served me from closed kitchens, profligate services rendered on my behalf. but in the end, I know these things spring from excess, not from want or need. you see, it’s what can’t be put on your american express black card. it is all that is so very much more.

what I want is the thought and effort you offer as an extravagance to me. all the things I can do for myself, but don’t have to. it is as little as the door you open for me, the streetsplash you shield me from, the dropped coin you pick up for me. the expenditure of your movement and attention, for the conservation of mine. and as challenging as combing your hair and dressing the way I like, always wearing a watch because you know I don’t, assuming a daily discomfort on my whim. these weights that are shouldered, with the constancy and devotion of perpetual reminder, unbroken. the wounds and scars you wear on your body and soul, for me. and the self-respect with which you carry and show them.

what you say to me, I tell you I’ve heard all the words spoken before. it’s not a matter of believing or not, but of knowing. if you feel it, show it to me. if you need it, go without it for me. if you want it, give it to me. I know it is much, impossible, but if it were simple I would not want it and if it were possible I would not want it from you.

pogonotrophy

okay, I think it may have been the pseudo-meningeal brain fever, but somewhere along the line, I developed this sort of obsession with hair.

yew, I know.

but then again, take a look at viggo mortensen, as he showed up on the red carpet for the academy awards this weekend:

then again, it may just have been the vest and morning coat combination...no, I think it was the beard.

everybody loves a man's man.

Love and Litigation

“Darling, litigation is the duel of the modern age. And with these attorneys, we’re showing up with heat-seeking smart missiles to a pistol fight.”

*Disclaimer*

The Deacs has just informed me that my habit of saving posts as drafts and then publishing them with the timestamps backdated, sometimes by over a month (hey, sometimes there's research to be undertaken) is highly annoying.

To the Deacs, I say, poo to you. Just start from the beginning and read through. You're not missing much.

I ♥ Daniel Day Lewis (yawn)

I know, I know. But did you see how good he looked last night (okay, to be fair, I didn't either, but I caught the recap this morning, on the AP newswire)?

Usually, I'm afraid of catching a DDL sighting, because you never know which one will show up, the beautiful and buttoned up Newland Archer/DDL or the crazyville method Bill Cutting/DDL.

But last night, there he was, all thin-lipped smile and slightly skewy lines. I'm a big fan of naturally straight teeth, hands that look like they can make things, hair that doesn't look like it's constantly being thought about, and yes, a man who loves his wife.

I just can't tear myself away

and I'm not even high.

this makes me wish the swiss would just take the world over. what are they waiting for??? the world should just ask the swiss to take us over, already.

yes, timetables and precision turn me on.

reunion

I haven’t seen david in ages and ages, and yet it was just like old times to meet up with him here in philadelphia.

just like, except for the fact that we sat around waiting for each other for almost half an hour, separated by about eight steps, "I can’t believe we’ve both been waiting here for so long--I kept looking over but all I saw was some random blonde girl."

but the conversation fell right into the old patterns, without a hitch, "who drinks a bloody mary at 9 in the morning? someone who woke up at 5 in the morning, that's who. hey, where's that bartender?"

catching up on the old, "really, he's the person I hate the least. he's not so bad. in fact, if you didn't hate him so much, you'd probably really get along. let me know if you see that bartender, okay?"

and then of course, the updates on the new and exciting, "yeah, hmm, so I can't remember if I got down on one knee or not this time, but I think I may have. or not. seriously, where's the bartender?"

it was great to see you, dave-a-doodle. happy birthday.

silhouettes

what I did

or, What I did after I missed the last bus out of the city and had to sit around another day,
or, How I chronicle the mundanity of my life:

12:00-3:15a: pointlessly tried to reason with people who were
12:00-3:15a: vociferously trying to prove to me that I was
12:00-3:15a: DOING SOMETHING STUPID
3:15-5:10a: the unmentionable
5:10-5:35a: saw you-know-who off
5:35-7:00a: contemplated the merit of drinking coffee
7:00-7:30a: drank coffee
7:30-8:30a: showered and took care of general upkeep
8:30-9:00a: stared out the window
9:00-9:45a: read a couple of chapters, tried and failed to
9:00-9:45a: remember reading them, reread them
9:45-10:00a: walked to the bakery
10:00-11:00a: picked up the warmest looking buns, more coffee
10:00-11:00a: and toodled into SoHo
11:00-11:30a: got lost on Orchard trying to find a someone to cut
11:00-11:30a: through some heavy metal I was carrying around
11:00-11:30a: in my purse
11:30-12:15p: had meaningless and confusing conversation with
11:30-12:15p: brad, who tried to convince me of things that
11:30-12:15p: apparently could not be explained
12:15-1:00p: looked around desperately for the perfect THING
12:15-1:00p: in the moma design store
1:00-1:15p: tried to explain what I was looking for to marc,
1:00-1:15p: who seemed very concerned that I couldn’t find it
1:15-4:30p: let marc console me over coffee & drinks for not being
1:15-4:30p: able to find the THING
4:30-4:35p: regretfully explained to marc why any more
4:30-4:35p: consolation wouldn’t be prudent
4:35-5:00p: walked uptownish
5:00-5:40p: shopped for things that smell good
5:40-5:41p: thought about stopping in at gray’s papaya
5:40-5:41p: but decided against it
5:41-5:45p: decided to pick up choux instead:
5:41-5:45p: strawberry, green tea and vaniller.
5:45-5:55p: ate choux and wished I had picked up more.
5:45-5:55p: looked into bag several times, imagining what it
5:45-5:55p: would be like to find another choux at the bottom.
5:55-6:05p: gave up hoping for another magical choux and
5:55-6:05p: picked up an apricot tart instead
6:05-6:07p: realized was late to bus and panicked for
6:05-6:07p: almost 120 seconds
6:07-6:15p: quelled panic with a small bag of brioche
6:15-6:29p: ran, jumped, stole taxi, ran some more, skidded,
6:15-6:29p: almost fell, ran slowly, clambered onto bus
6:29-6:39p: realized all that running probably wasn’t necessary

Black Mountain

I used to have this little worn post-it stuck onto my desk at the office:
I used to Black Mountain
I used to Pink Mountaintops
I used to JagJaguwar
written on it in red ink, courtesy of a conversation I’d had with PB and meant to follow up on for years. I picked up Black Mountain’s debut LP, and listened, liked, and shelved it, for whatever reasons.

Then I got In the Future as a gift as a prelude to seeing them last week at Johnny Brenda’s. And! And!

It’s been three years since their debut album, and in the meantime, they’ve developed a definite bluesier, harder edge, making them less raw, but in a good we’ve-been-practicing sort of way. There is something dirtier, bleaker in what they have to say and how they say it now. “C’mon, let your halo down” opens up Angels with a tiredness that makes you remember the Doors more than the early Sabbath that everyone wants to compare them to. Although you can hear the Geezer Butler-esque heavy basslines throughout, and the intro to Stormy High is practically a tribute to Tommy Iommi, there’re echoes of the Robby Krieger/Ray Manzarek combo that keep it smarter.

At times, like throughout most of Wucan, the composition of the instruments and vocals is absolutely mesmerizing. And the play with syllable arrangements, “no, you don’t ever want to get some place where you cannot believe” against the rise and fall of the melody is clever enough you can forgive some of the spottier parts where the keyboards (3.01-3.54, for example) begin to degrade into synth-rock.

There’s a lot said about the Stephen McBean + Amber Webber dual vocals, but the real driving force is the drum and bass interplay—the intro combination in Tyrants is by far the most memorable 90 seconds in the album. It’s that heavy double-fisted drumming that pushes the album away from veering into some serious Pink Floyd territory (soft keyboard trills starting 2.54 into Queens Will Play, for example), although it was altogether much less so during the live show.

For better or worse, Stephen McBean’s voice sometimes gets a little too whiny and thin, especially in Evil Ways, which starts out so strong with the drum and keyboard entry, you wish it could’ve gone on a bit longer without interruption. He’s an indie-rocker stepping into the flannels and beard of Jim Morrison, and here and there, it shows.

There’s also something slightly PULP-y about this as well, like moments in the intro to Wild Wind, where it sounds like when Jarvis Cocker and Russell Senior would build up these blues-y early-in-the-morning-walk-back-home sort of rambles. And yes, I did sort of have a crush on the drummer, who looked like Trent Reznor back when he was thin and cute.

I know it’s early, but this is definitely in my Top 10 of 2008.

here on the street where I live

To be fair, Def Leppard had the idea too, "Action, Not words (gimme action, action, action not words)!" But Eliza understood it best, what none of the men had even begun to grasp, and she said it most eloquently to Freddie Eynsford-Hill, as he came after her on the street:


Words, words, words, I'm so sick of words
I get words all day through, first from him, now from you
Is that all you blighters can do?

Don't talk of stars burning above
If you're in love—show me.
Tell me no dreams, filled with desire
If you're on fire—show me.

Here we are together in the middle of the night
Don't talk of Spring, just hold me tight.
Anyone who's ever been in love will tell you that
This isn't any time for a chat!

Haven't your lips longed for my touch?
Don't say how much—show me, show me.
Don't talk of love, lasting through time,
Make me no undying vow—show me now!

Sing me no songs, read me no rhyme,
Don't waste your time—show me.
Don't talk June, don't talk of Fall;
Don't talk at all—show me.

Never do I ever want to hear another word
There isn't one I haven't heard.

things I am grossed out by

* little particulates of food flying out as you talk to me
* when you use your finger to dig into your ear/nose/other orifice
* and then examine it afterwards
* how you wipe your nose surreptitiously on things other than tissue,
* when you think no one is looking
* watching you dig your underwear out of crevices, in public viewing
* coming across a people poo, unexpectedly, in the street
* seeing you touch yourself, out of the corner of my eye, with your
* hand in your pocket, because you think no one can actually
* figure out what you’re doing
* the sound you make when you suck on your hair, and twirl
* the ends of it in your mouth
* mayonnaise

meh

White Williams

I went to see white williams at johnny brenda’s on the 9th (Forgoing, if I may add, an opportunity to see gene loves jezebel at the khyber. The things one does for compromise. of course, it was the bad twin version of the band, so I have to own that it wasn’t the greatest sacrifice).

ecstatic sunshine and rings opened up for him, but we were late to one, and I had a ralf-attack (part of the could-be-bacterial-meningitis bout) during the other, and so all I can report on is white williams himself.

I was a bit delirious and so don’t remember much beyond the swirling red and green lights of johnny brenda’s but I have a clear image of the little alien creature, dance-singing on stage, flanked by an emo synth-dude on one side and another such dude kneeling on the floor, worshipping his little ipod with a steady headbang.

I’m listening to the album now, and it’s steady good. neo new wave with all the proper nods to bowie, eno, bolan. headlines is the clear side a single, with new violence taking the b side slot. meaning, of course, that new violence is the better song.

a little too twee at times; I don’t understand why everyone is so blown away by the remake of I Want Candy, which was sort of a blip the first time around. but when it’s not too clever, it’s clever. and a steady entry into my Top 10 of 2008.

midnight cowboy at la bonbonniere

photo credit: chiik

it was a pretty ordinary moment. we stopped in for a snack--probably burgers--at a likely looking spot; a diner called la bonbonniere in chelsea that looked like it had weathered something more than the sunshine outside.

it was when this pair sat down that the particular shade of sunshine changed. what was it about them that makes me take out this photo, now, over a year later and stare at it? I don't know, exactly.

it's just that he was so tired. and was so careful of the little one. it was cold outside, and you can see they're bundled up yet, because they'd been walking a while and hadn't warmed up enough to unwrap themselves from the layers they were wrapped in. that blue backpack was so gingerly pulled off his back and hung up. you can't really see, but that brown corduroy jacket had at least 2 sweaters underneath, and all that puffiness made it difficult to maneuver his arms. and the chair was too low for the table, and so he's actually kneeling on the seat, with the toes of his tennies hanging just over the edge.

they split a bowl of soup, and after a bit, a hotdog. you can see the end of the dog as a bulge of cheek, and somehow, it is that little bit that sort of breaks my heart every time.

I wonder if they ever made it to florida.

could it be that I'm actually more fucked up than I think I am?

♥-♥♥♥

♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥ ♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥. ♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥. ♥♥♥, ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥, ♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥ ♥ ♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥ ♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥. ♥ ♥♥♥, ♥♥♥♥, ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥, ♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥.

♥♥ ♥ ♥♥♥♥♥'♥♥ ♥♥♥ ♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥. ♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥. ♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥, ♥♥♥ ♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥ ♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥ ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ♥♥♥'♥.

I'm just kidding. Yeesh.

satan loves that scrabble

so pb told me once that when he was younger, he was always afraid of accidentally selling his soul to the devil. and I found this surprisingly interesting--for all my fear of the afterworld and whatever just deserts I will meted upon arrival, I never was worried about the trickery of the prince of darkness. why? well, as a reigning spelling bee & math champ, I could only assume that I would be able to outmanuever lucifer and any of his logically/lexicographically challenged minions when it came to pawing at my soul. after all, consider the evidence, as documented by modern cinema:

The Ninth Gate
how lame is it that the whole plot hinges on the fact that the satanic illustrations are marked with the initials "LCF" to stand for LuCiFer. why? this book was created by the devil himself, and he decided to mark the pictures by signing the first letter of the syllables of one of his name, and in english? eh? BZB seems much more evil, something about that Z.

Rosemary's Baby
I guess it only makes sense that the man who brought you the above piece of lexical brilliance originated his thinking with a game of scrabble untangling the clues to figure out that creepy next-door-neighbor ROMAN CASTAVET was actually son of noted satanic wizard, STEVEN MARCATO. once more, we ask, why? satan is that tied to these, again, english versions of his name? he couldn't just come up with a new name for one of his most powerful followers? if he'd just been renamed Stanley or something, they wouldn't've had to go through all that trouble of kidnapping Ro in the street or killing Hutch or feeding her all that chalky-undertasting tannis root. actually, if the devil had just filed his nails, the entire plot would've gone off without a hitch. which leads me to believe that satan's stupider than he'd like us to believe

Exorcist III
the premise here is that the Gemini Killer is possessed by the devil. I mean, that's the whole point of the exorcisms, right? so, why can't the devil spell-check? the double-Ls are supposed to be a mark of the GK, but seriously, wouldn't we all take evil more seriously if he weren't a poor speller?

The Omens (I, II and III)
it's like the devil keeps playing this poorly-conceived game of hide-and-seek. like, he doesn't want anyone to know it's him, and yet he'll mark himself all over (head, back, hands) with the 666. look, once you let us see that "mark of the beast", the jig is up. we all know who you are and from whence you came. der.

Angel Heart
again, so the devil takes his place on earth, and after a stroll through the Big Book of Names, he came up with Louis Cyphre? does he go by "Lou"? why is satan such a chump?

To the Devil a Daughter
okay, so the devil wants the soul of a young girl to be his representative on earth, and the only way he could figure out how to do so was to get her father's signature on a contract. because she's not yet 18. so all this time, she could've given that soul away at will, but minority laws are upheld in the under/afterworld? and it has to be a physical document that the father signs, in regular ink. does he get a copy? was it notarized? I hope satan's got good representation...

The Devil's Advocate
...and yet The Devil's Advocate teaches us that indeed, Lucifer is picking his attorneys out of the yellow pages, just like the rest of us. Seriously, if Kevin Lomax is John Milton (har har)'s son, why wait so long to test his evil-ness? Why not harness and tap into his well of devilry from at least law school and spare himself all that work?

union fidelity trust

I'm watching Take the Money and Run, and besides giving me a craving for spaghetti, I am having a difficult time with it.
Sorry, Chiik.

Breaking News

I was listening to last week's This American Life, in which they sat in an editorial session at The Onion, reviewing potential headlines for the week. In tribute, I offer the events of the morning as I walked to the library, in headline form:

Man sobs into Dunkin’ Donuts Strawberry Fruit Coolatta
Wharton senior swears to make a difference as he accepts offer with Bear Stearns
Area boy swears he’ll call later. Definitely tomorrow if not today.
Area girl mentally crosses area boy off list while nodding.
Man incorrectly assumes no one can see him dig underwear out of ass
Local couple loudly bare humiliations of night before on sidewalk
Young man trades in soul for decent GPA
Woman surreptitiously sniffs fingers on left hand as she enters library
Café out of coffee, tea. Offers warm Diet Pepsi.
Library mistaken for local pickup joint as “accidental” foot-rubbing commences

the politics of death

from the Associated Press, February 11, 2.38pm ET:

Hillary Clinton
* lobbied to support Bill Clinton's expansion of the federal death penalty as first lady
* co-sponsored law requiring DNA testing for people sentenced to death

Barack Obama
* supports death penalty for crimes which "the community is justified in expressing the full measure of its outrage"
* wrote bill mandating videotaping confessions and interrogations in capital cases

John McCain
* supports expansion of federal death penalty and limits on appeals

Mike Huckabee
* supports the federal death penalty
* ''I carried out the death penalty 16 times, more than any other governor in my state's history.''

To my brother Ralf, on his birthday

Ralf,

I want to take a moment and tell you how inexplicably gratifying it is to see you having not only survived, but really carved a place of your own in this world.

I remember the very first day moms brought you home from the baby store. I was excited because they told me they were bringing home a baby, and both my fish, sunny and goldie had died the week before as a tragic result of their strict training regimen. I assumed (correctly, as it turns out) that a baby would be much more hardy and able to withstand a rigorous training schedule as we mastered a variety of showtricks to unveil before the unsuspecting world.

I’m sorry for all the biting. In those first several months, I was still honing my ability to show you how much I loved you, and the only way I could think of properly expressing it was with a good chomp to the most available expanse of pink. Aren’t you glad, then, that I was able to whet my proficiencies at emotional and psychological torment? All the work that went into creating your very own twilight zone universe of alternate realities—elaborate practical jokes lasting weeks, months, culminating in a collapse of tears and the faked deaths of Ruff, Mr. Teddy Bear, Dorothy, Santa, you?


And now, here you are, all these years later, with nary a physical or psychological scar on you to show for all that love and attention.

Happy Birthday, and stop twitching.

Love,
Me

Am I dead yet?

She asks a few questions over IM after I describe the horrifying pain in my neck and shoulder I woke up with, compounding the all-over bodyaches from the day before:

* Are you nauseated?

* Do you have a headache?

* Have you still been not sleeping?


Yes. Yes. And yes!


Uh-oh, she writes. I don't want to freak you out or anything, but that with the bad neck pains you're feeling, and the fact that you've been throwing up...it sounds like bacterial meningitis. I know you hate hearing these sorts of things, but maybe you should check in with a doctor?

Except I do hate hearing those sorts of things, and the very last thing I want to do is check in to see some doctor. Especially one who I know is going to take a cursory glance at me, tell me to drink more fluids, maybe write me a prescription, and essentially do the post-medical school version of shrugging his shoulders. I've been there before. I've had migraines since ever, and no matter of tests and cat scans ever produced a reason or solution. Recurring sinus infections? Yep. How about a lung infection that never cleared up fully, and blows up every couple of years? Yep, that too. Mystery rash that could be eczema, allergies, site of alien biological testing? Yep. Bumps on my shinbones that were a result of hairline fractures that my doctor didn't detect until I already had lumps up and down my left leg? Why, yes. My medical file is full of Mystery Illness notations, just ask my GI person.

Besides, I don't have insurance.

So I sweated it out. Figuratively and literally. And I'm sure scared the crap out of Meeps with my DTs and ralf-o-ganza. And in the end, you know what? It was just Mystery Illness anyways. I'm not dead, so it can't be meningitis. Yes, I still have the pain in my shoulder, and a tiny, hard little lump in my neck, and my nails have started to peel. But come July, I'll be back on the insurance bandwagon, and then I can ignore these with a free conscience.

inspiration

is this as brilliant as I think it is, at 4 in the morning?

yes.

Insomniac

This morning I had to face the truth and actually accept a label to stick onto myself. I’m an insomniac. Maybe not forever, not always. But now, here, yesterday, today, and probably tomorrow.

Some nights I sleep a couple of hours. Here and there, barely hovering over the sandy grit of wakefulness, touching down every so often to remind myself of how tenuous this sleep is. Other nights, and most of them, it’s an endless stretch of awakeness. Blink upon blink, neverending, until the night outside lightens by the millisecond and I can pretend it’s a new day, a new start.

It’s not the staying awake but the trying to sleep that is so exhausting. I spend my nights willing it to happen, cajoling my mind to shut itself down, negotiating with the universe for that moment when consciousness blinks off. And yet, and yet.

I can handle the fatigue, the exhaustion. It’s the falling apart that drains me of my ability to keep it together. It’s as if I’m floating through zero-gravity, and without this ceaseless effort of concentration, the edges of me begin to blur and slowly drift apart. I’m pulling away from my core. Like a puzzle picture that’s not quite fitted together; the loose edges getting looser.

It’s just empty space but it feels full, and I’m walking around tight with the crowding of empty. Nothing. Void. Today I am a blank.

something

piaculum

him: so, what should I give up for lent? I want it to be a real sacrifice.

her: chastity

pass me the candy jar, please

why are there so many food blogs lately? all anyone wants to talk about on the internet is food. and making food. and eating food. and taking pictures of food. don't we do anything else?

just asking. I guess as someone whose main dietary staples are reese's mini peanut butter cups, peanut m&ms and string cheese, it's hard to comprehend spending hours deseeding things or trying to figure out if you've chopped something coarsely enough rather than getting into mincing territory.



I've decided just now that my new rule will be to only eat things that can be turned into muppet versions of themselves.

deus ex machina

it's like I'm the executive director of the hoover dam. it's pretty important, a lot at stake there. and someone points out to me that there's a fairly large crack up in the retaining wall. that it seems to be fine now, but there are faint tremors along the length of the wall, and they could be related. it's not certain, but highly coincidental that they'd be starting up now, if they weren't related.

so, I open up my plan book--after all, as the executive director of the dam, it's not like I haven't dealt with cracks before. and I flip open to Plan A: Ignore. sounds pretty good to me. I mean, I check out the window, and the dam looks pretty good from up here. sure, every once in a while, one of the engineers buzzes up, but they're always freaking out over something. so, Plan A it is.

well, as soon as Plan A goes into action, I get red lights from everywhere. major tremors in Sector C! cracks forming in Sector F! tremors and cracks in Sectors D, H, T and U! and all the while, that crack in the retaining wall is getting deeper and wider. I pull out the plan book, flip past Plan A to Plan B: Cement.

I read through the operation and it sounds both feasible and repairing. we'll be spreading a sealing cement over the entire span of the dam. covering the whole thing. it'll look completely different, but in the end, the foundations are still there, and it will be sealed with this high-gloss cement that will hold everything together. safe. sound.

I get to work. and it was hard work--it's been a while since this executive director's been down in the field, pulling on work gloves and spackling cement. but toodle-a-roo, worth it in the end. I mean, this is the hoover freaking dam.

this should've been the end of the story, right? except, of course not.

this cement that was used should've worked. except, apparently, under certain conditions (too numerous to detail here, but take my word for it), what the cement does is contract tighter and tighter. so what it's doing is actually weakening the foundation structure; I'm watching the dam crumble right there, under my feet. I can feel the tremors, hear the cracks. they're all around me as I sit in my office, desperately searching the plan book for a Plan C that doesn't exist.

I think I may be going down with this one.

the alternaverse of atari

and I present to you, the bobby fisher of pong:

the rainman of asteroids:


who we like to call the anna kournikova of breakout:

and what was I doing during all this retrofun? I was contemplating the number of schemes I had going on in my outfit, and all the reasons I couldn't continue trying to pull this off anymore (aside from the fact that I'm not a japanese junior high school student time-traveling here from 1992):

soopa-doopa bowl

I watched my first super bowl tonight. or, was watching. I have to say, it's definitely a different game than as presented on Remember the Titans, my go-to reference for all things football. thanks to jordan, neil and some random who was unlucky enough to sit down next to me, I now know what gary and julius meant when they kept yelling, "leftside" "strongside!" at each other. I also know why it would be crazy to call a foul on sunshine. and what louie meant when he swore he "audibled". I also imagine that the people I was sitting next to now consider me a bare step up from being a complete mental incompetent.

still, as soon as"runnin' down a dream" wound down, it was my cue to leave. [I was really hoping for "refugee", but still. tom petty is aging like a san fernando valley housewife. pretty well, that is.] at that point, I was full up of the various forms of melted, battered, and fried cheeses. how many deep-fried mozzarella sticks can one girl eat (answer at bottom of post)?

also, I'm feeling a little ill--and not just from the cheese sticks. I don't want to scare anyone, but I was just in a room with a ton of people I didn't know, all dipping chips into the same bowls of salsa. in light of all the research what's come out, what are the chance someone double-dipped?

• On average, the students found that three to six double dips transferred about 10,000 bacteria from the eater’s mouth to the remaining dip.
• That means that sporadic double dipping in a cup of dip would transfer at least 50 to 100 bacteria from one mouth to another with every bite.
• Professor Dawson said that [the theory against double-dipping] was essentially correct. “The way I would put it is, before you have some dip at a party, look around and ask yourself, would I be willing to kiss everyone here? Because you don’t know who might be double dipping, and those who do are sharing their saliva with you.”

In case it wasn't clear to you, I WASN'T willing to kiss everyone there. Yeew. I am feeling germtastic just now. I think I'm going to have a lie-down.


Super Bowl XLIII, here I come!

(the answer is: 14)

let them sing it for you

there's this website, developed by the swedish, of course, that sings back the words you type in.

it's not hours of fun, but a few minutes, at least. really, what else have you got going on?

seether

more later, but I just wanted to say that I'm pissed. really pissed. how dare you? who do you think you are? and what place do you really think you occupy in my life that you can talk to me like that?

you think because I like to wear pink and ribbons in my hair that I'll stand still and take anything you hand over to me? that because I smile means I don't catch your poorly veiled deceit? that because I don't call you on it right then and there means I don't hear and understand what you're actually trying to say?

then you're even more of a cretin than I thought. underneath all the frills you see, there's a core of steel, and I can take it out and gut you. and I will. don't mess with me, motherfucker.

heartbreak

my heart broke a little yesterday, as I watched john edwards take the podium and announce in new orleans that he would be suspending his campaign for presidency as of the results of the florida primaries

it was important to me, the thought of having a president who was also a fearless idealist, intellectually and emotionally. that he be a person who was able to stare the worst head on, without blinking or turning away. I’m not talking here about the death of his son, although I do think that, and the obvious love he has for his wife are central to the core of who and what he is, and why is able to believe in something greater than what exists. but what I am talking about is that we have someone who was unafraid to dig into the psyche of what keeps us as Americans apart from each other, and to give voice to it.

after the 2004 elections, I thought the only saving grace from the disaster manned by the democratic party would be the fact that we would be forced to re-examine our political beliefs, to centrifuge them down to the essence of what it meant to be a democrat, and then to reorganize and rebuild. much the way the republicans had done so well over the past decade. become a political party driven by beliefs, widening a constituency based on the introduction of new ideas and deepening it with new life into familiar ones.

since the 1972 elections, we have been so focused on making sure we laid claim to the “liberal” tag—that we lived up to it above all else, that what he haven’t done is lived up to the actual basis and claim of the democratic party. where once being a democrat meant the espousing of a populist ideology, grounded on liberal economic policies and social agendas, the party platform has moved towards centrist economics, leaving in its wake the very working class which once defined it. I like that john edwards was unafraid in pushing that conversation open: poverty and the working class. and the fact that there is a cost to be exacted for the ideals we believe in. through taxes, the renouncing of extravagance, and the physical and emotional exertion needed to realign our goals.

in the end, I guess we proved what we tried to claim was the opposite of our intent—that image is still key. a white man talking about outdated core beliefs of class and equity is not as sexy as a woman or a black man debating any other issue under the spotlight of the public stage.

that’s not to say I won’t be happy, ecstatic, to see hilary clinton or barack obama being sworn in this winter. but their politics are more feathery, effortless. I’m concerned about clinton’s voting record on appeasing the mid-conservative vote, as exemplified by her mercurial stance on the war. I’m concerned with obama’s lack of record in general, his absence from giving voice to an actual platform, an actual statement beyond feel-good generalities. give me something.