1. I'm living in a world where I can hear uttered on the news in complete seriousness,
"an air raid by drones in Pakistan".
2. Countdown is in lots of ways much funnier than the Daily Show.
3. Saying that Countdown is funnier than the Daily Show makes me feel dirty, but not out of misplaced loyalty for John Stewart. Is it wrong for me to find humor in the utter hopelessness and ridiculousness of the world around me? The Montauk Monster is a good example of this: I know its a decomposing animal corpse, and yet? I find it entertaining.
4.
5. Yes, we all know how much Exxon makes. We've known for years. And years. And years. Why is everyone so shocked by this?
6.
7. Pharmecutical Exercising
8. Playing Dress Up with Navy SEALS, Arabian Nights style
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
In other news...
This?
I don't care if it's a decomposing dog or brilliant facsimile. It still makes me sad.
But I think that show looks like a pretty cool kids show. I might even try to watch it. In which case, let me again refer you to the Canadian Severed Feet In Sneakers theory I posted a while ago. Viral-shock marketing is awesome in this really creepy here comes the future way. Of course, you have to have very little conscience, or very little regard for public feelings.
I'm obviously in the wrong field.
Why does Project Runway make me feel all soul-searchy?
On my rebound relationship trip, I keep meeting these guys I think I have a crush on.
It's pent up anger and loneliness fueling these crushes, but you know, all of you have been through it too.
Before I entered the "long term monogamy stage of my life", I was the kind of girl who was boy crazy. To say the least. In an incredibly shallow and self-serving sort of way. During that time, I met all kinds of creepy mouth breathers and whisper talkers. I did things, and people, that I'm definitely not admitting to in any blog or drinking game.
Now that stage of me is almost eight years old, but I was scared that somehow my life would go back to that. I've been telling myself over and over again to stay away from boys, keep to myself, don't think about sex or fall into the same destructive habits I had before. I'm not the most determined young woman, and I have little to no willpower.I'm exactly the sort of almost middle aged spinster who makes stupid mistakes when she gets her freedom back.
But in the past month and half, I've gone through three pretty hardcore crushes, and mercifully they have all died before they started crawling. Because I feel like I'm able to see through people faster, evaluate their weaknesses better, and not hang around any kind of crap just cause I wanna get laid. It's like I'm superpower single girl, able to cut men down with a single scathing judgment.
In reality, I've felt this way about other guys for a long time, ever since I fell for Sean. He was so much better than any guy I'd ever met before, he threw into high relief the competition's flaws, he instilled in me impossibly high standards.
So now I'm out in the world without Sean, but with those standards still in place. Before we broke up, I was afraid of this too, of never finding a guy who was as good as him. And I didn't break up with him because I thought I could find better. There were other reasons. Maybe I will never meet another guy who will be as great as he was on our great days.
But the end of the story is I no longer care. I don't care if I ever date someone else. I don't care if I'm never in another relationship again. Of course, I have that post-breakup medley of "fuck guys, fuck boyfriends" stirring around in my head. But it's passing. Behind the jitteriness, I can feel this cold hard imprint of "Who cares? I want the rest of my life to start happening."
I had a conversation with this girl at Lava Lounge the other day, and she said "well, girls are like that. When they're done, they're done." She's right. Girls will try and try and keep trying, until finally one day they're finished and there's no more try left. And once that happens, there are no booty calls or prolonged late night phone calls. There's just me, being done. Being distanced and objective, trying to not be excitable, or angry, or depressed, or manic. Avoiding anything that smacks of drama. I want some time with the more moderate subtle feelings, emotions with light touches, an even keel.
I feel like maybe I'm forcing my brain to overcome its addiction to highs and lows. Maybe, like the smoker who one day hates the smell of cigarettes, I just lost my taste for the constant storm of me and Sean. And I have no desire to feel those kind of feelings, good and bad, again. I want new feelings. Self-possessed feelings.
Now all I need is an overseas trip.
It's pent up anger and loneliness fueling these crushes, but you know, all of you have been through it too.
Before I entered the "long term monogamy stage of my life", I was the kind of girl who was boy crazy. To say the least. In an incredibly shallow and self-serving sort of way. During that time, I met all kinds of creepy mouth breathers and whisper talkers. I did things, and people, that I'm definitely not admitting to in any blog or drinking game.
Now that stage of me is almost eight years old, but I was scared that somehow my life would go back to that. I've been telling myself over and over again to stay away from boys, keep to myself, don't think about sex or fall into the same destructive habits I had before. I'm not the most determined young woman, and I have little to no willpower.I'm exactly the sort of almost middle aged spinster who makes stupid mistakes when she gets her freedom back.
But in the past month and half, I've gone through three pretty hardcore crushes, and mercifully they have all died before they started crawling. Because I feel like I'm able to see through people faster, evaluate their weaknesses better, and not hang around any kind of crap just cause I wanna get laid. It's like I'm superpower single girl, able to cut men down with a single scathing judgment.
In reality, I've felt this way about other guys for a long time, ever since I fell for Sean. He was so much better than any guy I'd ever met before, he threw into high relief the competition's flaws, he instilled in me impossibly high standards.
So now I'm out in the world without Sean, but with those standards still in place. Before we broke up, I was afraid of this too, of never finding a guy who was as good as him. And I didn't break up with him because I thought I could find better. There were other reasons. Maybe I will never meet another guy who will be as great as he was on our great days.
But the end of the story is I no longer care. I don't care if I ever date someone else. I don't care if I'm never in another relationship again. Of course, I have that post-breakup medley of "fuck guys, fuck boyfriends" stirring around in my head. But it's passing. Behind the jitteriness, I can feel this cold hard imprint of "Who cares? I want the rest of my life to start happening."
I had a conversation with this girl at Lava Lounge the other day, and she said "well, girls are like that. When they're done, they're done." She's right. Girls will try and try and keep trying, until finally one day they're finished and there's no more try left. And once that happens, there are no booty calls or prolonged late night phone calls. There's just me, being done. Being distanced and objective, trying to not be excitable, or angry, or depressed, or manic. Avoiding anything that smacks of drama. I want some time with the more moderate subtle feelings, emotions with light touches, an even keel.
I feel like maybe I'm forcing my brain to overcome its addiction to highs and lows. Maybe, like the smoker who one day hates the smell of cigarettes, I just lost my taste for the constant storm of me and Sean. And I have no desire to feel those kind of feelings, good and bad, again. I want new feelings. Self-possessed feelings.
Now all I need is an overseas trip.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
4th House
Even though not fatal, crabs has always been one of the more terrifying STDs I can think of.
Cancer, the disease, was so named because back when they were naming things like that, they couldn't very well see inside the body. They could see tumors on the outside though, melanoma, mutated dying colonies that spread, ate up the skin, harvesting the delicate cells of the epidermis like acres of king crabs migrating across the ocean floor. So Hippocrates called it carcinoma, supposedly describing the claw like projections of the disease. But we should give him more credit. Maybe he looked at it's despicable, stealthy onslaught on the body, and compared it to the beach crabs, stalking their prey on the sand, scuttling and snapping, but never giving up. Did you know that they used to treat breast cancer in Egypt with something called a "fire drill"?
One fights the causes of cancer by eating better, exercising, not smoking, not drinking, getting lots of sleep, not using a fork on the Teflon pan, not using aluminum deodorant, moving away from the steel mill. Keeping away from excess. In medical astrology however, Cancer the astrological sign governs the stomach and breasts. People born under this sign want things larger, they want more of whatever it is. They are unstable, devious, clinging. They are also generous, romantic, highly sentimental. They are most compatible with Fish that can't stand still, Scorpions that compulsively sting, and Bulls, that most stable of animals which always wants to be in the china shop.
The Chinese equivalent of a Cancer is someone born a Sheep, beautiful social people with a lack of control, very little interest in self-denial, Yin.
In the Babylonian calendar, it is Arax Du'uzu, dedicated to Dumuzi, or Tammuz, the shepherd god. He is also another Persephone, dead for six months of the year, locked up in the underworld every summer solstice as Ishtar's replacement corpse.
The Tropic of Cancer is the most north you can go and still have the sun directly above you at high noon, at Summer Solstice. When it was named, the sun was in the constellation of Cancer. Now the sun is in the constellation of Taurus. The Tropic passes through Abu Dhabi and some miles of desolate ocean between a few islands of Hawaii. When you fly around the world, you have to go at least as many miles as the Tropic or it doesn't count.
In the constellation of Cancer, there exists a binary star system called 55 Cancri. The first star is small and yellow and 5 planets orbit it. The second star is a cold red dwarf, the dead siamese twin, tethered to the breathing body of its celestial brother. On July 6th 2003, a radio signal message was sent to 55 Cancri, and it will arrive May 2044, which is the month of Taurus. This is coincidentally the year the world will end, with a 1 in 500,000 chance that asteroid 1999 AN10 will hit the Earth on August 6th 2044.
2044 is the year I turn 65 and receive a Buckeye Card in the mail.
Cancer, the disease, was so named because back when they were naming things like that, they couldn't very well see inside the body. They could see tumors on the outside though, melanoma, mutated dying colonies that spread, ate up the skin, harvesting the delicate cells of the epidermis like acres of king crabs migrating across the ocean floor. So Hippocrates called it carcinoma, supposedly describing the claw like projections of the disease. But we should give him more credit. Maybe he looked at it's despicable, stealthy onslaught on the body, and compared it to the beach crabs, stalking their prey on the sand, scuttling and snapping, but never giving up. Did you know that they used to treat breast cancer in Egypt with something called a "fire drill"?
One fights the causes of cancer by eating better, exercising, not smoking, not drinking, getting lots of sleep, not using a fork on the Teflon pan, not using aluminum deodorant, moving away from the steel mill. Keeping away from excess. In medical astrology however, Cancer the astrological sign governs the stomach and breasts. People born under this sign want things larger, they want more of whatever it is. They are unstable, devious, clinging. They are also generous, romantic, highly sentimental. They are most compatible with Fish that can't stand still, Scorpions that compulsively sting, and Bulls, that most stable of animals which always wants to be in the china shop.
The Chinese equivalent of a Cancer is someone born a Sheep, beautiful social people with a lack of control, very little interest in self-denial, Yin.
In the Babylonian calendar, it is Arax Du'uzu, dedicated to Dumuzi, or Tammuz, the shepherd god. He is also another Persephone, dead for six months of the year, locked up in the underworld every summer solstice as Ishtar's replacement corpse.
The Tropic of Cancer is the most north you can go and still have the sun directly above you at high noon, at Summer Solstice. When it was named, the sun was in the constellation of Cancer. Now the sun is in the constellation of Taurus. The Tropic passes through Abu Dhabi and some miles of desolate ocean between a few islands of Hawaii. When you fly around the world, you have to go at least as many miles as the Tropic or it doesn't count.
In the constellation of Cancer, there exists a binary star system called 55 Cancri. The first star is small and yellow and 5 planets orbit it. The second star is a cold red dwarf, the dead siamese twin, tethered to the breathing body of its celestial brother. On July 6th 2003, a radio signal message was sent to 55 Cancri, and it will arrive May 2044, which is the month of Taurus. This is coincidentally the year the world will end, with a 1 in 500,000 chance that asteroid 1999 AN10 will hit the Earth on August 6th 2044.
2044 is the year I turn 65 and receive a Buckeye Card in the mail.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Whether to weather the weather, we wait wondering
Marty and Rebecca have adopted me. My crude painting is hanging on their fridge, and now they're letting me do laundry at their house. For some unknown reason, every dryer I have touched in the last two months decided to break this past week. The one in the basement downstairs. The one at my parents' house. I'm sucking the oil out from around the tumbler with my teeth, and the motors are blowing and quite frankly underwear and jeans aren't that heavy, so I don't blame myself.
This afternoon I lay in bed till 11:30am. I woke up at 9:30am, like completely awake, and I said to myself "There is no fucking way I am getting out of bed before 11 today, no way." So I lay there and stared at the ceiling, I talked to the cat, I studied the lines on my hand. I checked the clock continuously, but I held strong.
Then I got up and went to the Akron Art Museum with M&R. It's such a weird little building, all glass and concrete and open space. It's a little building that wants to be a big building. There's only one tiny gallery with their collection before 1950 (or some date, I don't remember), but it's mostly Ohio artists which is kinda cool even though it sounds lame. The Cleveland Art doesn't have a room of Ohio artists. Then the modern stuff was upstairs and there was a lot more of that, including a very awesome Magritte which I had never seen before. It was a giant falcon carved into the side of cliffs, with real falcons circling in the background. I love it, but I can't find anything about it online. I wish I could remember the name....but I can't even find that online. I mean, all the literature talks about the Chuck Close, and the Warhol, but no Magritte. It's very strange. I felt like I had found a gem when I saw it.
They also have an exhibition by Bill Brandt who did all these black and white photos of WWII England, and most of them were very good, but there was this one...it was in a group of four, and I think it was called something like Police Officer or Policeman. It was an officer, in an dark alley, walking obliviously past what looks like Clifford the big giant grey dog, laying in the background. I wish I could find that for you too, its spectacularly creepy.
One of the weird things about this museum was that all the security guards, who I'm sure are students, were younger than me. I realize I'm getting old, but 29 is not old enough to be older than the security guards. I felt bad for the guy in the pre-1950 gallery. There were only three small rooms yet he had to "patrol". Poor kid could have been sitting on a stool in the corner and seen everything anyway. The guy in the modern art gallery was hot, which I kinda didn't like, cause then I'm watching him out of the corner of my eye and worrying about what to do with my hands. I like my art observation to be unobserved please. Either way too many people or nobody at all. But I am very jealous, wish I had that job in college. Fuck, I wish I had that job now. I think after a while I would know the art so well, it would talk to me, like how when you read Jane Eyre, you learn something about how you felt that day, and it ceases to be a novel and is more like a looped conversation with yourself. Maybe thats just me.
After eying all the pretty jewelry and robot plates in the gift shop, we went to Virginia Kendall and walked the ledges. M&R had never seen them. Which is cool, I love those ledges. But I wasn't really wearing the right shoes for it (red maryjanes), and also I'm not capable of keeping up with two very fit young people who go hiking all the time. I mean, I did keep up, cause I didn't have a choice. But I thought I was about to die by the time I got to the top of the stone steps.
Didn't die though. Went back to their house, made them tuna melts, then came home listening to Wilco which I haven't done in a long time. Watched Charlie Bartlett, which was really cute in an 80s teen movie way. Robert Downey Jr was in it playing a drunk principal, the soundtrack had a lot of Eels, there was a "band" scene. I liked it. Which reminds me, the reason I posted that "Blue" video the other day...I watched Ten Things I Hate About You on tv and do you remember the band in it? Letters to Cleo? God. Also watched Definitely, Maybe, which is structured on flashbacks thru the 90s. Meaning, it has started. The 90s as an acceptable "era", fit for VH1 shows and memoir movies, has started. I know it started last year technically, but this time Abigail Breslin was in it, so thats official. Also it reminded me that in my high school not everyone had cell phones, and that at one point in my cognizant life I didn't have internet, which I don't even remember. But then again, I don't remember what its like to smoke in bars either. And that was two years ago.
Yes, I know its a chick flick weekend. I'm not going to defend myself here. I wish on days like this I could remember every movie thats come out, that I wanted to see and nobody else did cause it looked lame and too girly. Or because it looked too lame and girly, I wouldn't pay nine dollars to see it in the movie theater and it was replaced eventually with a cooler movie I did want to see. I wish I had a database of all those titles, and I could just type in what I was in the mood for - hot people being cool, cool people not being hot but being smart, absurd plot involving beauty pageant, serious plot involving drugs, dogs, destination romantic comedies, british people looking shocked.
This afternoon I lay in bed till 11:30am. I woke up at 9:30am, like completely awake, and I said to myself "There is no fucking way I am getting out of bed before 11 today, no way." So I lay there and stared at the ceiling, I talked to the cat, I studied the lines on my hand. I checked the clock continuously, but I held strong.
Then I got up and went to the Akron Art Museum with M&R. It's such a weird little building, all glass and concrete and open space. It's a little building that wants to be a big building. There's only one tiny gallery with their collection before 1950 (or some date, I don't remember), but it's mostly Ohio artists which is kinda cool even though it sounds lame. The Cleveland Art doesn't have a room of Ohio artists. Then the modern stuff was upstairs and there was a lot more of that, including a very awesome Magritte which I had never seen before. It was a giant falcon carved into the side of cliffs, with real falcons circling in the background. I love it, but I can't find anything about it online. I wish I could remember the name....but I can't even find that online. I mean, all the literature talks about the Chuck Close, and the Warhol, but no Magritte. It's very strange. I felt like I had found a gem when I saw it.
They also have an exhibition by Bill Brandt who did all these black and white photos of WWII England, and most of them were very good, but there was this one...it was in a group of four, and I think it was called something like Police Officer or Policeman. It was an officer, in an dark alley, walking obliviously past what looks like Clifford the big giant grey dog, laying in the background. I wish I could find that for you too, its spectacularly creepy.
One of the weird things about this museum was that all the security guards, who I'm sure are students, were younger than me. I realize I'm getting old, but 29 is not old enough to be older than the security guards. I felt bad for the guy in the pre-1950 gallery. There were only three small rooms yet he had to "patrol". Poor kid could have been sitting on a stool in the corner and seen everything anyway. The guy in the modern art gallery was hot, which I kinda didn't like, cause then I'm watching him out of the corner of my eye and worrying about what to do with my hands. I like my art observation to be unobserved please. Either way too many people or nobody at all. But I am very jealous, wish I had that job in college. Fuck, I wish I had that job now. I think after a while I would know the art so well, it would talk to me, like how when you read Jane Eyre, you learn something about how you felt that day, and it ceases to be a novel and is more like a looped conversation with yourself. Maybe thats just me.
After eying all the pretty jewelry and robot plates in the gift shop, we went to Virginia Kendall and walked the ledges. M&R had never seen them. Which is cool, I love those ledges. But I wasn't really wearing the right shoes for it (red maryjanes), and also I'm not capable of keeping up with two very fit young people who go hiking all the time. I mean, I did keep up, cause I didn't have a choice. But I thought I was about to die by the time I got to the top of the stone steps.
Didn't die though. Went back to their house, made them tuna melts, then came home listening to Wilco which I haven't done in a long time. Watched Charlie Bartlett, which was really cute in an 80s teen movie way. Robert Downey Jr was in it playing a drunk principal, the soundtrack had a lot of Eels, there was a "band" scene. I liked it. Which reminds me, the reason I posted that "Blue" video the other day...I watched Ten Things I Hate About You on tv and do you remember the band in it? Letters to Cleo? God. Also watched Definitely, Maybe, which is structured on flashbacks thru the 90s. Meaning, it has started. The 90s as an acceptable "era", fit for VH1 shows and memoir movies, has started. I know it started last year technically, but this time Abigail Breslin was in it, so thats official. Also it reminded me that in my high school not everyone had cell phones, and that at one point in my cognizant life I didn't have internet, which I don't even remember. But then again, I don't remember what its like to smoke in bars either. And that was two years ago.
Yes, I know its a chick flick weekend. I'm not going to defend myself here. I wish on days like this I could remember every movie thats come out, that I wanted to see and nobody else did cause it looked lame and too girly. Or because it looked too lame and girly, I wouldn't pay nine dollars to see it in the movie theater and it was replaced eventually with a cooler movie I did want to see. I wish I had a database of all those titles, and I could just type in what I was in the mood for - hot people being cool, cool people not being hot but being smart, absurd plot involving beauty pageant, serious plot involving drugs, dogs, destination romantic comedies, british people looking shocked.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
I don't know what my deal is....I terrorized my siblings when I was younger....but I feel so super over-protective of them...it's like the minute anything slightly bad happens to them I just want to punch someone in the throat. Carrie's dealing with some shit over some article she was quoted in, and I had to resist lambasting everyone who had any opinion of it at all, even though no one was bashing her. I'm all like "shut the hell up everyone goddamned one of you, you are all slobbering morons", but instead I left a comment that said "wow you guys are so polite".
At least I can control the blood instinct, but does raging blind territorial opinionism run in our family? Followed by 180 nonconfrontational cover-up?
Carrie, why don't you point me in the direction of people who ARE morons? Or maybe I'll just google global warming, and get it out that way.
Done : What the hell is with the eagle? THAT's a good symbol for "man isn't destroying earth"? Are you aware there was just an oil spill on the Mississippi River?
At least I can control the blood instinct, but does raging blind territorial opinionism run in our family? Followed by 180 nonconfrontational cover-up?
Carrie, why don't you point me in the direction of people who ARE morons? Or maybe I'll just google global warming, and get it out that way.
Done : What the hell is with the eagle? THAT's a good symbol for "man isn't destroying earth"? Are you aware there was just an oil spill on the Mississippi River?
It's Zombie Week: Show someone you care, get them a cricket bat
I've been staying away from this thing in a total funk, unable to think of anything decent or humane to write about. I'm dead stalled on the book, and the idea of writing here when I'm not writing there is dreadful. So instead, here's a list of things I did this week. Maybe if I just start typing, I'll feel better.
1. Saturday I went to a friend's Cancer party. Not because he has cancer, but because his friends are Cancers. Just like you would expect from the title, there were girls with boobs (supposedly there are no flat chested cancers), a bonfire in 90 degree humidity, and boys playing guitar. Also, there were not that many people, which is funny, cause Cancers supposedly want to stay home all the time. I met Nate's new girlfriend, who is, like every other girl he's ever dated, hot. Nate is an attractive guy, but he's not a model or anything. Yet somehow he is capable of meeting any really hot girl in Cleveland. With no droughts. It's like his super-power. I don't know, maybe it proves that there are way more hot girls than hot guys. Anyway, she's really nice, and so was her friend, and over all it was a big improvement from the last one. It rained a lot at the party, and I got very wet, and introduced everyone to Cafe Patron, which is the best liquor ever.
2. Sunday---Sunday I was supposed to go see the Vatican treasures exhibit with my mom, but I woke up all early and hungover, and got dressed in clean non-embarrassing clothes....only to have her cancel on me when I got there cause she was so dead tired from driving around Noble County on Saturday looking for land. I think it's cute my mom is on a quest for land. It's like she's a pioneer, only instead of Indians she's trying not to get scalped by rednecks or churchies in the backwoods of southern Ohio.
Since I was free for the rest of the day, I went over Marty's early with food. Stupid Blockbuster stopped carrying Nightwatch like THAT day, so I rented Fido instead. We made chicken kebabs and brown rice, and for desert I broiled goat cheese with brandy, made a carmelized banana sauce, and served it with raspberries. Buddy came over, we watched the movie, the movie was AWESOME.
Let me repeat, FIDO IS AN AWESOME MOVIE AND YOU SHOULD SEE IT if you like movies about a world where suburbanites have domesticated zombies and use them as servants and pets. Which I do.
3. Monday - I worked. I talked a lot about zombies at work. Oh wait, but before work I went to get my e-check for my car, and on the way to get my registration I discovered my license was expired! Gasp! So I had to get a new license picture and it sucks cause I need a haircut really badly and now I look like a fat Ringo on my license for the next four years.
4. Tuesday - I worked. I made myself a frittata when I got home for dinner. I did my dishes.
5. Wedns. - I worked and the conversation about zombies continued. I got home and watched Project Runway. Then CSI:New York was on, and it was about a zombie!
6. Thursday - I worked and I learned what a Golden Birthday was. I made plans to go to Milwaukee and Chicago in September to visit work friends and my sister. More zombie talk.
Also Buddy sent me this video with some smarmy comments about a guy I dated a long time ago:
7. Friday - I worked. And the conversation on email was about dinosaurs and some word game I don't play very well. I never play word games well.
And here I am. Now I'm gonna go watch bad Friday night tv and paint. I kind of feel like a zombie. See zombies are so relatable! We equate them with work, and modern society, and also we feel bad for them cause they used to be human, and we feel guilty cause we have to kill them and really its about civilizations killing other civilizations for power and survival in the giant risk game that is North and South America. I love the place the mall has in zombie mythology now. I love zombies. But I don't want to be a zombie. When I die, I would like to have my head cut off please. And then cremated.
1. Saturday I went to a friend's Cancer party. Not because he has cancer, but because his friends are Cancers. Just like you would expect from the title, there were girls with boobs (supposedly there are no flat chested cancers), a bonfire in 90 degree humidity, and boys playing guitar. Also, there were not that many people, which is funny, cause Cancers supposedly want to stay home all the time. I met Nate's new girlfriend, who is, like every other girl he's ever dated, hot. Nate is an attractive guy, but he's not a model or anything. Yet somehow he is capable of meeting any really hot girl in Cleveland. With no droughts. It's like his super-power. I don't know, maybe it proves that there are way more hot girls than hot guys. Anyway, she's really nice, and so was her friend, and over all it was a big improvement from the last one. It rained a lot at the party, and I got very wet, and introduced everyone to Cafe Patron, which is the best liquor ever.
2. Sunday---Sunday I was supposed to go see the Vatican treasures exhibit with my mom, but I woke up all early and hungover, and got dressed in clean non-embarrassing clothes....only to have her cancel on me when I got there cause she was so dead tired from driving around Noble County on Saturday looking for land. I think it's cute my mom is on a quest for land. It's like she's a pioneer, only instead of Indians she's trying not to get scalped by rednecks or churchies in the backwoods of southern Ohio.
Since I was free for the rest of the day, I went over Marty's early with food. Stupid Blockbuster stopped carrying Nightwatch like THAT day, so I rented Fido instead. We made chicken kebabs and brown rice, and for desert I broiled goat cheese with brandy, made a carmelized banana sauce, and served it with raspberries. Buddy came over, we watched the movie, the movie was AWESOME.
Let me repeat, FIDO IS AN AWESOME MOVIE AND YOU SHOULD SEE IT if you like movies about a world where suburbanites have domesticated zombies and use them as servants and pets. Which I do.
3. Monday - I worked. I talked a lot about zombies at work. Oh wait, but before work I went to get my e-check for my car, and on the way to get my registration I discovered my license was expired! Gasp! So I had to get a new license picture and it sucks cause I need a haircut really badly and now I look like a fat Ringo on my license for the next four years.
4. Tuesday - I worked. I made myself a frittata when I got home for dinner. I did my dishes.
5. Wedns. - I worked and the conversation about zombies continued. I got home and watched Project Runway. Then CSI:New York was on, and it was about a zombie!
6. Thursday - I worked and I learned what a Golden Birthday was. I made plans to go to Milwaukee and Chicago in September to visit work friends and my sister. More zombie talk.
Also Buddy sent me this video with some smarmy comments about a guy I dated a long time ago:
7. Friday - I worked. And the conversation on email was about dinosaurs and some word game I don't play very well. I never play word games well.
And here I am. Now I'm gonna go watch bad Friday night tv and paint. I kind of feel like a zombie. See zombies are so relatable! We equate them with work, and modern society, and also we feel bad for them cause they used to be human, and we feel guilty cause we have to kill them and really its about civilizations killing other civilizations for power and survival in the giant risk game that is North and South America. I love the place the mall has in zombie mythology now. I love zombies. But I don't want to be a zombie. When I die, I would like to have my head cut off please. And then cremated.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
The longer the ratio, the higher my interest
1. It's a sad thing when I see a bug crawling on the ceiling, and I am relieved when it starts flying around, because it means it's not a cockroach. It's also a symptom of the guilt I feel for not doing my dishes yet. I feel I deserve cockroaches.
2. There's been a conversation happening over at M.'s journal about sexism and cliched writing and let's face it, I got off topic a little while ago on that, but I spent a good portion of the day after work drinking, so maybe I'm being a bit antagonistic. The final thing I pointed out was that I liked caricatures, and I specifically liked Buffy because the characters were in fact stereotypes that the writers just fucked with in their broad plot lines, cliched ideas made new by quirky little twists, like making your barbies fight transformers. It's hard to write a character that is all essence, but comic.
Then I went over to Wiki and read their (very biased and weirdly structured) article on caricatures.
a) "Ramachandran and Hirstein suggested that caricature is related to peak shift. In the peak shift effect, animals sometimes respond more strongly to exaggerated versions of the training stimuli. For example, if a rat is trained to respond to a rectangle of a particular aspect ratio, and to avoid a square, when later presented with several rectangles it will prefer the one with the most elongated aspect ratio (this being the one that is most different from the square) rather than the original rectangle used in training."
b)"Jan Op De Beeck has published several books on caricature and was named "World's Best Caricaturist" in 2003 by a group of professional cartoonists in Iran." What? Iran?
c) Honore Daumier is a great name, and probably what I will name my next sacrificial male character sketch :P
I'm covered in rain water, full of various coffee flavored things, and tomorrow I go to see the Vatican treasures exhibit with my mommy, so I'm gonna guess I'll have even more to say about sexism and caricatures when I get back. But let's all give it up for the fact that I have typed out the word "caricature" like, twenty million times tonight. Go me. If you say it enough times, it creates its own definitions...
Caricature: a type of painful sexual position
Caricature: a new line of clothing from some Hills star
Caricature: a Belle & Sebastian cover band
Caricature: the lining of a mother cats womb
Caricature: a type of Chinese puppet show
Caricature: The sound made when your bra's air padding pops
Caricature: The sound made when Tim Gunn pops
Caricature: a thistle found only in north-western canada
Caricature: a brand of school notebook, with little lines
Caricature: box white wine mixed with club soda
Caricature: The Lives of The Saints
2. There's been a conversation happening over at M.'s journal about sexism and cliched writing and let's face it, I got off topic a little while ago on that, but I spent a good portion of the day after work drinking, so maybe I'm being a bit antagonistic. The final thing I pointed out was that I liked caricatures, and I specifically liked Buffy because the characters were in fact stereotypes that the writers just fucked with in their broad plot lines, cliched ideas made new by quirky little twists, like making your barbies fight transformers. It's hard to write a character that is all essence, but comic.
Then I went over to Wiki and read their (very biased and weirdly structured) article on caricatures.
a) "Ramachandran and Hirstein suggested that caricature is related to peak shift. In the peak shift effect, animals sometimes respond more strongly to exaggerated versions of the training stimuli. For example, if a rat is trained to respond to a rectangle of a particular aspect ratio, and to avoid a square, when later presented with several rectangles it will prefer the one with the most elongated aspect ratio (this being the one that is most different from the square) rather than the original rectangle used in training."
b)"Jan Op De Beeck has published several books on caricature and was named "World's Best Caricaturist" in 2003 by a group of professional cartoonists in Iran." What? Iran?
c) Honore Daumier is a great name, and probably what I will name my next sacrificial male character sketch :P
I'm covered in rain water, full of various coffee flavored things, and tomorrow I go to see the Vatican treasures exhibit with my mommy, so I'm gonna guess I'll have even more to say about sexism and caricatures when I get back. But let's all give it up for the fact that I have typed out the word "caricature" like, twenty million times tonight. Go me. If you say it enough times, it creates its own definitions...
Caricature: a type of painful sexual position
Caricature: a new line of clothing from some Hills star
Caricature: a Belle & Sebastian cover band
Caricature: the lining of a mother cats womb
Caricature: a type of Chinese puppet show
Caricature: The sound made when your bra's air padding pops
Caricature: The sound made when Tim Gunn pops
Caricature: a thistle found only in north-western canada
Caricature: a brand of school notebook, with little lines
Caricature: box white wine mixed with club soda
Caricature: The Lives of The Saints
Friday, July 18, 2008
Absolutely Brilliant ideas for parties
1. Everyone invited to the party knows no one else. Not even the host.
Everyone receives a dossier on everyone else, chronicling in detail their past relationships, what they do for a living, where they live, what bars they go to, what kind of pet they have, ect.
Everyone is forced to talk about anything else besides what is listed in their dossier.
Violators are ostracized and forced to go home as losers.
2. Everyone invited to the party must recite their (credible) interpretation of String Theory at the door. Once inside, they get one drink for every physics joke they tell. Jokes about people who tell physics jokes not allowed. Afterparty includes a trip to Edgewater to launch our homemade rockets.
3. To get into the party, you must bring a date who looks eerily like yourself.
4. Bug fighting tournament.
5. The pretend we're thirteen again party: Everyone must drink either really cheap beer or mad dog or convenient store wine that taste like fruit. Major points for those who combine sprite and mad dog to make punch. The only tobacco allowed in the house is Black and also Mild. Newports must be kept outside. Music is played on a very old boombox in the kitchen, and at some point, after Alexis dances on the table, we play spades. Oh, and this all takes place in a very crappy apartment in Ohio City with very little in the way of chairs, but a prominently displayed 1st generation Playstation.
6. The pretend we're sixteen again party: drop a little acid and hang out in South Chagrin metroparks, listening to Phish and drawing chalk pictures on the otherwise perfectly decent river rocks. Quote whatever Shakespeare play we're covering in English class to each other. Then go home and watch episodes of Gumby. Later write poems about killing yourself.
7. A key party, only instead of fucking, you take the other person out for coffee. And or cocaine.
8. A who's the biggest food network dork party. Big Bold flavors automatically disqualified. Also, everything must be vegan.
9. Everyone must come in costume as someone else at the party.
10. A turn your cellphones into political art party.
Everyone receives a dossier on everyone else, chronicling in detail their past relationships, what they do for a living, where they live, what bars they go to, what kind of pet they have, ect.
Everyone is forced to talk about anything else besides what is listed in their dossier.
Violators are ostracized and forced to go home as losers.
2. Everyone invited to the party must recite their (credible) interpretation of String Theory at the door. Once inside, they get one drink for every physics joke they tell. Jokes about people who tell physics jokes not allowed. Afterparty includes a trip to Edgewater to launch our homemade rockets.
3. To get into the party, you must bring a date who looks eerily like yourself.
4. Bug fighting tournament.
5. The pretend we're thirteen again party: Everyone must drink either really cheap beer or mad dog or convenient store wine that taste like fruit. Major points for those who combine sprite and mad dog to make punch. The only tobacco allowed in the house is Black and also Mild. Newports must be kept outside. Music is played on a very old boombox in the kitchen, and at some point, after Alexis dances on the table, we play spades. Oh, and this all takes place in a very crappy apartment in Ohio City with very little in the way of chairs, but a prominently displayed 1st generation Playstation.
6. The pretend we're sixteen again party: drop a little acid and hang out in South Chagrin metroparks, listening to Phish and drawing chalk pictures on the otherwise perfectly decent river rocks. Quote whatever Shakespeare play we're covering in English class to each other. Then go home and watch episodes of Gumby. Later write poems about killing yourself.
7. A key party, only instead of fucking, you take the other person out for coffee. And or cocaine.
8. A who's the biggest food network dork party. Big Bold flavors automatically disqualified. Also, everything must be vegan.
9. Everyone must come in costume as someone else at the party.
10. A turn your cellphones into political art party.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Which came first, the duck or the foi gras?
So which is harder? Falling in love or breaking up?
I think we can all agree that the answer you give is a pretty good indicator of what kind of person you are.
If you say falling in love is harder, then you're a person who, while you may be a totally generous wonderful kind dude, is ultimately more self-concerned. You may be afraid, picky, or totally vain. An attention whore, a self-defined failure, or merely preoccupied with finishing your thesis. Point is, another person is never going to be the center of your world. You're the kind of person who will get stuff done, whatever the flaws or virtues that contribute to that.
Another type is the person who breaks up constantly because they need to be obsessed with the other persons view of them. Isn't he a slob! Isn't he mean! Isn't he such a loser! But they can't separate themselves, because really that other person is something reflecting them to themselves. Oh now he hates me, now he thinks I'm bitch. Maybe I will be a bitch then. Maybe I deserve to be angry, maybe I deserve more than this. They can adopt a whole new persona, a whole new dimension of themselves, however they want to see their life. They're addicted to blaming the other person for all the problems in their personal life. It contributes to the sick satisfaction they get from being a participant in the soap opera.
Some people are just constantly falling in love, and really what they are doing is finding as much excuse as possible not to think about themselves. They want to think about the other person, to always be pondering what they're doing, if they thinking about you, if they are happy, if they're unhappy. If one distraction disappears. then they jump immediately for next one. The drama that the other type found entertaining in its martyrdom, this group finds sustaining in the total control of lifestyle. They live for a life other than their own.
Lastly, there's the person who thinks breaking up is hardest. This person is the opposite of the falling-in-love-is-harder guy. They can't think about themselves enough, they ache for the other person and also for the loss of that person's trust, the effect of losing that trust on the rest of that person's life. They are not saints. It's not saintly to have a hard time breaking up. The person who takes it hardest makes the whole process hard, for the other person, their friends, their family, probably some well meaning co-workers by the coffee machine (though not as bad as the middle two). But this person is empathetic, or maybe at least intelligently sympathetic.
Look, I made a chart:
Most-----------------------Falling in Love is hardest
Selfish
.
.
.
.
.-----------------------Breaks up constantly
'
Crazy
.
.
.-----------------------Falls in love constantly
.
.
.
.
Least-----------------------Breaking up is hardest
Selfish
Maybe the point of growing up is to move from the middle of the spectrum to one end or the other.
But what about when you are the type of person who finds both pretty easy? Is that the ideal? Or is it the worst kind?
I think we can all agree that the answer you give is a pretty good indicator of what kind of person you are.
If you say falling in love is harder, then you're a person who, while you may be a totally generous wonderful kind dude, is ultimately more self-concerned. You may be afraid, picky, or totally vain. An attention whore, a self-defined failure, or merely preoccupied with finishing your thesis. Point is, another person is never going to be the center of your world. You're the kind of person who will get stuff done, whatever the flaws or virtues that contribute to that.
Another type is the person who breaks up constantly because they need to be obsessed with the other persons view of them. Isn't he a slob! Isn't he mean! Isn't he such a loser! But they can't separate themselves, because really that other person is something reflecting them to themselves. Oh now he hates me, now he thinks I'm bitch. Maybe I will be a bitch then. Maybe I deserve to be angry, maybe I deserve more than this. They can adopt a whole new persona, a whole new dimension of themselves, however they want to see their life. They're addicted to blaming the other person for all the problems in their personal life. It contributes to the sick satisfaction they get from being a participant in the soap opera.
Some people are just constantly falling in love, and really what they are doing is finding as much excuse as possible not to think about themselves. They want to think about the other person, to always be pondering what they're doing, if they thinking about you, if they are happy, if they're unhappy. If one distraction disappears. then they jump immediately for next one. The drama that the other type found entertaining in its martyrdom, this group finds sustaining in the total control of lifestyle. They live for a life other than their own.
Lastly, there's the person who thinks breaking up is hardest. This person is the opposite of the falling-in-love-is-harder guy. They can't think about themselves enough, they ache for the other person and also for the loss of that person's trust, the effect of losing that trust on the rest of that person's life. They are not saints. It's not saintly to have a hard time breaking up. The person who takes it hardest makes the whole process hard, for the other person, their friends, their family, probably some well meaning co-workers by the coffee machine (though not as bad as the middle two). But this person is empathetic, or maybe at least intelligently sympathetic.
Look, I made a chart:
Most-----------------------Falling in Love is hardest
Selfish
.
.
.
.
.-----------------------Breaks up constantly
'
Crazy
.
.
.-----------------------Falls in love constantly
.
.
.
.
Least-----------------------Breaking up is hardest
Selfish
Maybe the point of growing up is to move from the middle of the spectrum to one end or the other.
But what about when you are the type of person who finds both pretty easy? Is that the ideal? Or is it the worst kind?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Dr. Horrible!
Yes, all the rest of you already know about this
but my family probably doesn't, and us Callahans stick together when it comes to Joss Whedon...
Joss Whedon directs Neil Patrick Harris, and Nathan Fillion in a superhero blog musical
For a limited time only....unless you buy it on iTunes....which we don't do...so go now Mom.
but my family probably doesn't, and us Callahans stick together when it comes to Joss Whedon...
Joss Whedon directs Neil Patrick Harris, and Nathan Fillion in a superhero blog musical
For a limited time only....unless you buy it on iTunes....which we don't do...so go now Mom.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Success Stories!
Today I successfully made blueberry coconut ice cream!
Today I successfully drove to and from work! And I didn't lock myself out of my car! Again!
Yesterday I successfully mixed hard liquor and The. O. C.!
An hour ago I successfully watched a movie where Kevin Bacon seduced Jennifer Aniston! Successfully!
Last week I successfully decoded the Satanic verses in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn!
"Those were the Rommely women: Mary, the mother, Evy, Sissy, and Katie, her daughters, and Francie, who would grow up to be a Rommely woman even though her name was Nolan. They were all slender, frail creatures with wondering eyes and soft fluttery voices."
It's all true! Mary is the despoiled virgin, Evy is Anne the poisoner, Sissy is the whore of Babylon, and Francie is the beast! Slumping towards Manhattan! Slender frail creatures who will puncture your jugular and drain your blood to feed to their captured men, to keep them comatose and silly! They steal babies from young immigrant girls and eat them! That's the whole point of the book! And Neely knows, but the curse stops him from speaking, and he can only desperately cling to the small things in his life, like spats! to keep himself from jumping off the tenement roof! Oh, and I left out Katie! Katie is Martha. Dumb dumb Martha.
Ten minutes ago I successfully made the realization that I do things in private with the constant sense that someone, somehow, is watching me and I should always be embarrassed! Like when I use the empty wine bottle as an ashtray because I'm too lazy to get the ashtray from downstairs and also there's a scene coming up where Jay Mohr doesn't make out with Jennifer Aniston, again. Or when I balance a paintbrush on my nose for ten minutes while sprawled out on the couch like a dead llama. Or when I use the same spoon for ice cream for like two weeks.
I'm a dynamo!
Today I successfully drove to and from work! And I didn't lock myself out of my car! Again!
Yesterday I successfully mixed hard liquor and The. O. C.!
An hour ago I successfully watched a movie where Kevin Bacon seduced Jennifer Aniston! Successfully!
Last week I successfully decoded the Satanic verses in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn!
"Those were the Rommely women: Mary, the mother, Evy, Sissy, and Katie, her daughters, and Francie, who would grow up to be a Rommely woman even though her name was Nolan. They were all slender, frail creatures with wondering eyes and soft fluttery voices."
It's all true! Mary is the despoiled virgin, Evy is Anne the poisoner, Sissy is the whore of Babylon, and Francie is the beast! Slumping towards Manhattan! Slender frail creatures who will puncture your jugular and drain your blood to feed to their captured men, to keep them comatose and silly! They steal babies from young immigrant girls and eat them! That's the whole point of the book! And Neely knows, but the curse stops him from speaking, and he can only desperately cling to the small things in his life, like spats! to keep himself from jumping off the tenement roof! Oh, and I left out Katie! Katie is Martha. Dumb dumb Martha.
Ten minutes ago I successfully made the realization that I do things in private with the constant sense that someone, somehow, is watching me and I should always be embarrassed! Like when I use the empty wine bottle as an ashtray because I'm too lazy to get the ashtray from downstairs and also there's a scene coming up where Jay Mohr doesn't make out with Jennifer Aniston, again. Or when I balance a paintbrush on my nose for ten minutes while sprawled out on the couch like a dead llama. Or when I use the same spoon for ice cream for like two weeks.
I'm a dynamo!
Monday, July 14, 2008
Survival: Cleveland in 30 years and today
So lets assume I'm still alive in thirty years...
I know, it's a stretch, but lets go with it...
Inner ring Cleveland is a bombed out wasteland, seeded with weeds and broken bottles. On W. 25th and Lorain, the streets lie empty, lit at night by the few emergency generators that converted to solar before the big bang, but abandoned long ago by their owners. The population has moved out like the tide, to the suburbs, safe in their pre-fab communities with Trader Joe's and genetically engineered dander free ferrets, which stare at each other across the apartment windows like small trolls waiting to eat the next passerby. Nobody comes down here anymore except to dump the bodies. On hot days you can smell the rotten yeast growing like a giant mushroom cloud in the rusted vats of the old brewery.
I live here, in the old West Side Market. The windows are sealed with scavenged car underbodies. A pack of feral dogs loyal only to my whistle, wander the outside verandas. I live all alone in the tiled, musty amphitheatre, various trip wires and electrical wires crisscrossing the ceiling, my footsteps echoing across the New Deal murals. Across the street, in the old Bank building, there is a neighbor. We communicate through mirror flashes in the windows. Visits are impossible, the first two floors of the Bank are held hostage by a colony of wild cats, so desperate for meat they attack anything that smells like flesh immediately. They can hear pulses through the plaster. We keep an eye on each other though, he with his ground to air missile on the roof, and me with my ingenuius laser cannon in the tower. The black helicopters attempt a landing every few months, but we know better than to trust people we can't look in the eye. I use the tower like a lighthouse, to interact with other outposts in the wasteland, to warn of danger and also apply for arts funding.
Wouldn't that be sweet? I totally want to live there. Wouldn't you want to be the guy in the Bank building, and I could fall delusionally in love with you and flash you love notes in light on the bare crumbling walls of your feline prison?
===================================================================================
I feel twelve saying this, but I totally made out on my birthday. I got a purse, a Julia Childs cookbook, watercolors, a cast iron skillet, 4 fans, a bottle of Cafe Patron, and an ice cream maker. Tomorrow I'm trying it out. The possible flavors are spinning around my head: lemon basil, coconut milk curry swirl, cucumber watermelon, goat cheese with chunks of fig and swirls of honey, earl grey, chocolate ancho, sweet potato praline. And of course, avocado!
Of course, as you all know, my sister was in town. Her show went well. Her poor friend Cameron drove way too far to it, and then back. I'm sure her mind is still reeling from the 12 hours of alone time. Friday was family day. Hung out with my sister quite a bit, went to dinner with my whole family, then made them watch Southland Tales. Used my birthday discount at Johnny Mango, and swore up and down to finally procure some fish sauce for my pantry. Umami sorbet!
Got taken to Lola's last night for my birthday. Had the crispy sweetbreads and took too big a bite, got a mouthful of soft fat and pancreatic sack, but with smaller more measured bites, quite yummy. Then the duck with pickled cherries and endives, awesome. And finally some perfect little round chocolate thing with hazelnut praline and raspberries. No Michael Symon, but there was Tony from Urban, because of course I spot him on my birthdays and also he always works at the nicest restaurants in town. Then got fucked up and watched Batman cartoons.
Today was a blur of sun, and blank expressions, scrabble grand masters and basement movie watching in the middle of the day. Today, once again, I do not do my dishes.
I know, it's a stretch, but lets go with it...
Inner ring Cleveland is a bombed out wasteland, seeded with weeds and broken bottles. On W. 25th and Lorain, the streets lie empty, lit at night by the few emergency generators that converted to solar before the big bang, but abandoned long ago by their owners. The population has moved out like the tide, to the suburbs, safe in their pre-fab communities with Trader Joe's and genetically engineered dander free ferrets, which stare at each other across the apartment windows like small trolls waiting to eat the next passerby. Nobody comes down here anymore except to dump the bodies. On hot days you can smell the rotten yeast growing like a giant mushroom cloud in the rusted vats of the old brewery.
I live here, in the old West Side Market. The windows are sealed with scavenged car underbodies. A pack of feral dogs loyal only to my whistle, wander the outside verandas. I live all alone in the tiled, musty amphitheatre, various trip wires and electrical wires crisscrossing the ceiling, my footsteps echoing across the New Deal murals. Across the street, in the old Bank building, there is a neighbor. We communicate through mirror flashes in the windows. Visits are impossible, the first two floors of the Bank are held hostage by a colony of wild cats, so desperate for meat they attack anything that smells like flesh immediately. They can hear pulses through the plaster. We keep an eye on each other though, he with his ground to air missile on the roof, and me with my ingenuius laser cannon in the tower. The black helicopters attempt a landing every few months, but we know better than to trust people we can't look in the eye. I use the tower like a lighthouse, to interact with other outposts in the wasteland, to warn of danger and also apply for arts funding.
Wouldn't that be sweet? I totally want to live there. Wouldn't you want to be the guy in the Bank building, and I could fall delusionally in love with you and flash you love notes in light on the bare crumbling walls of your feline prison?
===================================================================================
I feel twelve saying this, but I totally made out on my birthday. I got a purse, a Julia Childs cookbook, watercolors, a cast iron skillet, 4 fans, a bottle of Cafe Patron, and an ice cream maker. Tomorrow I'm trying it out. The possible flavors are spinning around my head: lemon basil, coconut milk curry swirl, cucumber watermelon, goat cheese with chunks of fig and swirls of honey, earl grey, chocolate ancho, sweet potato praline. And of course, avocado!
Of course, as you all know, my sister was in town. Her show went well. Her poor friend Cameron drove way too far to it, and then back. I'm sure her mind is still reeling from the 12 hours of alone time. Friday was family day. Hung out with my sister quite a bit, went to dinner with my whole family, then made them watch Southland Tales. Used my birthday discount at Johnny Mango, and swore up and down to finally procure some fish sauce for my pantry. Umami sorbet!
Got taken to Lola's last night for my birthday. Had the crispy sweetbreads and took too big a bite, got a mouthful of soft fat and pancreatic sack, but with smaller more measured bites, quite yummy. Then the duck with pickled cherries and endives, awesome. And finally some perfect little round chocolate thing with hazelnut praline and raspberries. No Michael Symon, but there was Tony from Urban, because of course I spot him on my birthdays and also he always works at the nicest restaurants in town. Then got fucked up and watched Batman cartoons.
Today was a blur of sun, and blank expressions, scrabble grand masters and basement movie watching in the middle of the day. Today, once again, I do not do my dishes.
Friday, July 11, 2008
I'm sorry, what?
So I think perhaps there is an underground democratic conspiracy to poison the decanted bourbon of the elite republicans, turning them slowly senile.
Or McCain and Bush have been partying together. Daily. Huffing Glade.
President George Bush: 'Goodbye from the world's biggest polluter'
"The American leader, who has been condemned throughout his presidency for failing to tackle climate change, ended a private meeting with the words: "Goodbye from the world's biggest polluter."
He then punched the air while grinning widely, as the rest of those present including Gordon Brown and Nicolas Sarkozy looked on in shock.
Mr Bush, whose second and final term as President ends at the end of the year, then left the meeting at the Windsor Hotel in Hokkaido where the leaders of the world's richest nations had been discussing new targets to cut carbon emissions."
But you know, that's only HALF the disturbing part of the article.
In the White House press pack, someone called the Italian prime minister the
"most controversial leaders in the history of a country known for government corruption and vice". Have we suddenly taken a hard stance against Italy? Is there a secret cold war, with imminent threat to our supply of cured meats, race cars, and buffalo mozzerella?
"The White House apologised for what it called "sloppy work" and said an official had simply lifted the characterisation from the internet without reading it."
So first of all, yes, Berlusconi is a bona fide bad guy. So I think its funny, and if the insult means I have to use Kraft mozzerella for a while, I'll deal.
But THAT's your excuse? One of my staffers plagiarized it from the Internet, DIDN'T READ IT, and then none of the 20 people who handle that press packet before it goes to the public caught it.
It gives one the impression that somewhere in the White House, there is room of sixth graders putting together Social Studies reports, which the staffers grab whenever they would rather go drinking. Next on the docket: England still owns Australia! And Canada!
In other news (not another Jesse Jackson link)
I iz on ur internetz, cutting off ur ballz
Or McCain and Bush have been partying together. Daily. Huffing Glade.
President George Bush: 'Goodbye from the world's biggest polluter'
"The American leader, who has been condemned throughout his presidency for failing to tackle climate change, ended a private meeting with the words: "Goodbye from the world's biggest polluter."
He then punched the air while grinning widely, as the rest of those present including Gordon Brown and Nicolas Sarkozy looked on in shock.
Mr Bush, whose second and final term as President ends at the end of the year, then left the meeting at the Windsor Hotel in Hokkaido where the leaders of the world's richest nations had been discussing new targets to cut carbon emissions."
Reuters
But you know, that's only HALF the disturbing part of the article.
In the White House press pack, someone called the Italian prime minister the
"most controversial leaders in the history of a country known for government corruption and vice". Have we suddenly taken a hard stance against Italy? Is there a secret cold war, with imminent threat to our supply of cured meats, race cars, and buffalo mozzerella?
"The White House apologised for what it called "sloppy work" and said an official had simply lifted the characterisation from the internet without reading it."
So first of all, yes, Berlusconi is a bona fide bad guy. So I think its funny, and if the insult means I have to use Kraft mozzerella for a while, I'll deal.
But THAT's your excuse? One of my staffers plagiarized it from the Internet, DIDN'T READ IT, and then none of the 20 people who handle that press packet before it goes to the public caught it.
It gives one the impression that somewhere in the White House, there is room of sixth graders putting together Social Studies reports, which the staffers grab whenever they would rather go drinking. Next on the docket: England still owns Australia! And Canada!
In other news (not another Jesse Jackson link)
I iz on ur internetz, cutting off ur ballz
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Yay, it's THURSDAY!
Tonight is Carrie's show at the Beachland with Cameron. The Free Times did a snippet about the show. It start at 9pm, its 5 dollars at the door, and I will be there early to drink with my family cause its my birthday. So if you haven't seen me in a while, you should come and buy me a fifth of a drink (I've got a 2 drink limit tonight), and laugh at my much more successful sister.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Well now the real nasty bits are coming out... Old Man McCain is fighting his demon gooks, St. Obama is getting free cellphone service for the rest of his life, and even the Iranians are depressed about the state of American politics.
Remember last year, when we were still optimistic enough to think this would be an easy election? Well, my bad. Call me stupid if you want. I'll just remind you of this incident next time you tell me my cynicism is the reason dolphins die.
It makes want to stick my head in a bucket.
Luckily, I maintained a healthy relationship with my Obama fervor (see, tempered cynicism works), and so this let-down doesn't completely break my heart. Like the boyfriend who suddenly works late, I think most of us saw this coming. We've already pre-justified our vote in November. Plus, didn't I just point out that McCain said "gook"?
Cheer up, because those of us who didn't see this coming, are so young and in love, they don't give a shit about this anyway. What's a telecom? In this era of Facebook, we all know our bosses are watching us all the time, and that's way scarier than the US Govt. They can't even send us our stimulus checks on time, what are they gonna do?
If you all really wanted to keep your activities private? You wouldn't ask for a quarter over the phone, you wouldn't twitter or tweeter or whatever bird noises you make, and you would not use the internet. Ever. So forgive the loss of this "right", and then forgive the next one, and the next one, just until November please.
Then we can flay him alive if we want to. And I have a feeling, by then, we'll be motivated. Not by hope, though.
I know, its terrible and depressing and awful and totally unfair and uncalled for and unfounded in any actual reason or evidence.
But hey, if Jesse Jackson feels this way about you, that can only be good publicity in some people's eyes.
Remember last year, when we were still optimistic enough to think this would be an easy election? Well, my bad. Call me stupid if you want. I'll just remind you of this incident next time you tell me my cynicism is the reason dolphins die.
It makes want to stick my head in a bucket.
Luckily, I maintained a healthy relationship with my Obama fervor (see, tempered cynicism works), and so this let-down doesn't completely break my heart. Like the boyfriend who suddenly works late, I think most of us saw this coming. We've already pre-justified our vote in November. Plus, didn't I just point out that McCain said "gook"?
Cheer up, because those of us who didn't see this coming, are so young and in love, they don't give a shit about this anyway. What's a telecom? In this era of Facebook, we all know our bosses are watching us all the time, and that's way scarier than the US Govt. They can't even send us our stimulus checks on time, what are they gonna do?
If you all really wanted to keep your activities private? You wouldn't ask for a quarter over the phone, you wouldn't twitter or tweeter or whatever bird noises you make, and you would not use the internet. Ever. So forgive the loss of this "right", and then forgive the next one, and the next one, just until November please.
Then we can flay him alive if we want to. And I have a feeling, by then, we'll be motivated. Not by hope, though.
I know, its terrible and depressing and awful and totally unfair and uncalled for and unfounded in any actual reason or evidence.
But hey, if Jesse Jackson feels this way about you, that can only be good publicity in some people's eyes.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The conversation is motherhood tonight sweeties...for various odds and ends of reasons.
1. I talked to my mother today about my impending doo...birthday.
2. Some girl I don't know on LJ wondered if she was pregnant.
3. Another girl I do know is trying to get pregnant, and all these other women are trying to comfort her by telling her how fucking long it takes to get pregnant. Whereas I am pretty sure I've used up all the "old condom" chances I have, and I'm getting knocked up as soon as I even think about it, which is why I might never have sex again.
4. I watched a rerun of Bones that included a dead newborn and lots of dialogue about how not all women want children, and the requisite line of "having a baby makes you feel whole" followed by "It's an increase in serotonin levels necessary for the propagation of the species". You know what would make that show cooler? If Booth was a killer vampire with a soul. Who hunted demons.
So is there going to come a magic point in my life where I suddenly realize I have to have a kid or I'll regret it forever? I'm not one of those girls who's been walking around thinking "later". I walk around thinking "never". Especially when looking at emo boys. If this magic moment exists, it probably already happened and was quickly nixxed by watching the Jonas Brothers Camp Rock.
But when you break it down, I don't really have a problem with kids. If I was independently wealthy and didn't have to work at all, I would probably enjoy having one. I'm incredibly vain in my own weird fat way, and my kid would be incredibly smart and charming, and also very attractive if I can figure out how to have a kid with only my DNA. What I can't stand is the idea of being attached to one guy for the rest of my life, and even more so the task of having to raise a kid WITH someone. If I'm ever having a baby, it's growing up the way I say it should grow up, and once again, let me stress the importance of me having a lot of money for that to happen. You need lots of money to buy a private island and start manufacturing clones of yourself, while paying for first class education, music lessons, tours of Asia, and ponies.
So it's not that I'm against me procreating, it's just that I know I will never be in the right situation for me to have a kid. Not in the next ten years anyway. Which, by the way, 10 years from now will be 39. FUCKED UP. Ten years ago was 19, EVEN MORE FUCKED UP. Time is going by REALLY SLOWLY. I feel like I've been alive forever. And yes, I do also feel like I will live forever, and yes that's probably cause I'm young. But to use a very tired cliche, if I lived 200 years ago, I'd be a great grandmother and have no teeth and also be dead. Of smallpox.
I feel incredibly bad for the girl I know who wants to get knocked up. I mean, here's the ideal person who should get a baby as soon as she wants it. She's beautiful, has her Ph.D in something I can't begin to understand, is kind and sweet and generous to everyone she meets, has terrific culturally sensibilities, revels in the joy of childlike things herself, and keeps her house clean, her husband inspired, her cats happy. She's fiscally responsible, ambitious, imaginative. I have no idea how my friend got lucky enough to meet her and get her to marry him, and I'm guessing most days he doesn't either. It actually makes one feel bad for all the babies who will not be her babies, because the child she has will be a fucking boon to the human race. And yes, sweety, you will eventually get pregnant. Lots of women do it every day, and lots of them wait a couple years.
Look at that amazing wonder list above. I am NONE of those things. Not only am I none of those things? I don't even LIKE people. I can't swallow the idea of being with one guy forever because I am a very selfish, easily irritated person who's idea of the perfect day is listening to myself talk aloud alone, and not putting clothes on. I feel like there should be an option to trade away my fertility, to make some bargain where I never get pregnant in exchange for her getting pregnant.
So I've been talking about getting a dog, since I'm almost thirty, I have a backyard, I need to walk more. It's funny, cause I've mentioned it to a few people, and all of them have tried to talk me out of it. Some more actively than others. Remember when you were little and you wanted a dog, and your parents talked to you about how much responsibility it is and how it's a lot of work? I swear, my friends do not think I'm grown up enough for a dog.
"You'd have to walk it every day"
"It's hard to date when you have to come home every night"
"It's expensive, how would you afford it?"
"They're not like cats, you can't stay out all night"
First of all, my friends obviously think I have some very exciting life that I hide from them.
Second, my friends think I'm a whore. Still. A whole six years later.
Third, the only person who reacted to the idea with any excitement and no words of wisdom was my mother. Which is a little heartening, even though its probably just cause she wants another dog and Dad won't let her get one.
I bring this up because I've been wondering if I'm channeling my latent need for motherhood into the need for a dog. The sad part of that is that my friends warnings are creating doubts, and deep in my heart I know they're right. I wouldn't be good yet for a dog. I wouldn't take it out enough, I wouldn't be home enough. I already have a major guilt complex about leaving my cat alone all day.
So the conclusion to this thinking is that I'm 29, and I'm not good enough for a dog yet. The only way I'll get a dog at this rate is by accident, like finding a stray or being asked by someone to dogsit and then they get run over by a train and I have to adopt it. Or if I just swallow the fear of responsibility and get one anyway, and then am forced to be a good parent. For all the crap I've gone through over the last six years, turns out I'm terrified of committing to something I can't get out of, and I don't know how to fix that, or even if I want to fix it, because quite frankly it seems like pretty sound instinct at this point.
I know, it's a little sadder than you were thinking when you started reading this, huh?
1. I talked to my mother today about my impending doo...birthday.
2. Some girl I don't know on LJ wondered if she was pregnant.
3. Another girl I do know is trying to get pregnant, and all these other women are trying to comfort her by telling her how fucking long it takes to get pregnant. Whereas I am pretty sure I've used up all the "old condom" chances I have, and I'm getting knocked up as soon as I even think about it, which is why I might never have sex again.
4. I watched a rerun of Bones that included a dead newborn and lots of dialogue about how not all women want children, and the requisite line of "having a baby makes you feel whole" followed by "It's an increase in serotonin levels necessary for the propagation of the species". You know what would make that show cooler? If Booth was a killer vampire with a soul. Who hunted demons.
So is there going to come a magic point in my life where I suddenly realize I have to have a kid or I'll regret it forever? I'm not one of those girls who's been walking around thinking "later". I walk around thinking "never". Especially when looking at emo boys. If this magic moment exists, it probably already happened and was quickly nixxed by watching the Jonas Brothers Camp Rock.
But when you break it down, I don't really have a problem with kids. If I was independently wealthy and didn't have to work at all, I would probably enjoy having one. I'm incredibly vain in my own weird fat way, and my kid would be incredibly smart and charming, and also very attractive if I can figure out how to have a kid with only my DNA. What I can't stand is the idea of being attached to one guy for the rest of my life, and even more so the task of having to raise a kid WITH someone. If I'm ever having a baby, it's growing up the way I say it should grow up, and once again, let me stress the importance of me having a lot of money for that to happen. You need lots of money to buy a private island and start manufacturing clones of yourself, while paying for first class education, music lessons, tours of Asia, and ponies.
So it's not that I'm against me procreating, it's just that I know I will never be in the right situation for me to have a kid. Not in the next ten years anyway. Which, by the way, 10 years from now will be 39. FUCKED UP. Ten years ago was 19, EVEN MORE FUCKED UP. Time is going by REALLY SLOWLY. I feel like I've been alive forever. And yes, I do also feel like I will live forever, and yes that's probably cause I'm young. But to use a very tired cliche, if I lived 200 years ago, I'd be a great grandmother and have no teeth and also be dead. Of smallpox.
I feel incredibly bad for the girl I know who wants to get knocked up. I mean, here's the ideal person who should get a baby as soon as she wants it. She's beautiful, has her Ph.D in something I can't begin to understand, is kind and sweet and generous to everyone she meets, has terrific culturally sensibilities, revels in the joy of childlike things herself, and keeps her house clean, her husband inspired, her cats happy. She's fiscally responsible, ambitious, imaginative. I have no idea how my friend got lucky enough to meet her and get her to marry him, and I'm guessing most days he doesn't either. It actually makes one feel bad for all the babies who will not be her babies, because the child she has will be a fucking boon to the human race. And yes, sweety, you will eventually get pregnant. Lots of women do it every day, and lots of them wait a couple years.
Look at that amazing wonder list above. I am NONE of those things. Not only am I none of those things? I don't even LIKE people. I can't swallow the idea of being with one guy forever because I am a very selfish, easily irritated person who's idea of the perfect day is listening to myself talk aloud alone, and not putting clothes on. I feel like there should be an option to trade away my fertility, to make some bargain where I never get pregnant in exchange for her getting pregnant.
So I've been talking about getting a dog, since I'm almost thirty, I have a backyard, I need to walk more. It's funny, cause I've mentioned it to a few people, and all of them have tried to talk me out of it. Some more actively than others. Remember when you were little and you wanted a dog, and your parents talked to you about how much responsibility it is and how it's a lot of work? I swear, my friends do not think I'm grown up enough for a dog.
"You'd have to walk it every day"
"It's hard to date when you have to come home every night"
"It's expensive, how would you afford it?"
"They're not like cats, you can't stay out all night"
First of all, my friends obviously think I have some very exciting life that I hide from them.
Second, my friends think I'm a whore. Still. A whole six years later.
Third, the only person who reacted to the idea with any excitement and no words of wisdom was my mother. Which is a little heartening, even though its probably just cause she wants another dog and Dad won't let her get one.
I bring this up because I've been wondering if I'm channeling my latent need for motherhood into the need for a dog. The sad part of that is that my friends warnings are creating doubts, and deep in my heart I know they're right. I wouldn't be good yet for a dog. I wouldn't take it out enough, I wouldn't be home enough. I already have a major guilt complex about leaving my cat alone all day.
So the conclusion to this thinking is that I'm 29, and I'm not good enough for a dog yet. The only way I'll get a dog at this rate is by accident, like finding a stray or being asked by someone to dogsit and then they get run over by a train and I have to adopt it. Or if I just swallow the fear of responsibility and get one anyway, and then am forced to be a good parent. For all the crap I've gone through over the last six years, turns out I'm terrified of committing to something I can't get out of, and I don't know how to fix that, or even if I want to fix it, because quite frankly it seems like pretty sound instinct at this point.
I know, it's a little sadder than you were thinking when you started reading this, huh?
Monday, July 7, 2008
But wait!
Martin Shure! Did you realize that both your first and last names are famous guitar brands?!
Who ARE you, really?
Who ARE you, really?
You hate Cubans!
Not true! I like Cubans (some of them). I just also happen to like communists (some of them). And I imagine that Cubans who have defected from Cuba would probably not like me. Like this fellow:
He would probably listen to me and then slap me a few times and say "you don't know what you're talking about, you stupid lazy American". And he would be right to do so. And then I would go back to my computer and write about ideals, and paradigms of thought, and the human potential, and the global pharmaceutical industry, and fighting the World Bank, and how much I hate Ayn Rand. And I would be right too. So really this is between Arturo and me. Yes, he has the super anti commie trumpet whose tones paralyze and enrapt the Duende. But I'm a fairy princess, with the super secret power of optimized white liberal propaganda, and a killer split-finger curve ball.
I think the point I'm making here is that I don't really like that everybody really wants to make lots of money. And also I like jazz..
Enough of this silliness. "Hey Bridget," you ask, "you had off for the past two days. What did you do?"
Well, yesterday I did nothing. And then later, I watched Super High Me, which was more a lesson in how some people really ARE funnier when they're not high than it meant to be. Then I went home and did more nothing, until this morning when I went into work for overtime.
Yes, that's right, I worked a whole shift of overtime on my off day. On the busiest claim day of the year. I am very proud of myself. Usually I run away from overtime faster than a raccoon will run away with your cheetos. And I'm not like, avoiding bookkeepers or anything either. Yay me.
Also, it sucked. Oh communism.....
Okay, I'm going to bed. I just needed to make it clear that if you are Cuban, you have the same chance of sleeping with me that anybody else does. Cross my heart and swear to the sickle. But man, do I really have it in for those Muggles!
He would probably listen to me and then slap me a few times and say "you don't know what you're talking about, you stupid lazy American". And he would be right to do so. And then I would go back to my computer and write about ideals, and paradigms of thought, and the human potential, and the global pharmaceutical industry, and fighting the World Bank, and how much I hate Ayn Rand. And I would be right too. So really this is between Arturo and me. Yes, he has the super anti commie trumpet whose tones paralyze and enrapt the Duende. But I'm a fairy princess, with the super secret power of optimized white liberal propaganda, and a killer split-finger curve ball.
I think the point I'm making here is that I don't really like that everybody really wants to make lots of money. And also I like jazz..
Enough of this silliness. "Hey Bridget," you ask, "you had off for the past two days. What did you do?"
Well, yesterday I did nothing. And then later, I watched Super High Me, which was more a lesson in how some people really ARE funnier when they're not high than it meant to be. Then I went home and did more nothing, until this morning when I went into work for overtime.
Yes, that's right, I worked a whole shift of overtime on my off day. On the busiest claim day of the year. I am very proud of myself. Usually I run away from overtime faster than a raccoon will run away with your cheetos. And I'm not like, avoiding bookkeepers or anything either. Yay me.
Also, it sucked. Oh communism.....
Okay, I'm going to bed. I just needed to make it clear that if you are Cuban, you have the same chance of sleeping with me that anybody else does. Cross my heart and swear to the sickle. But man, do I really have it in for those Muggles!
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Reason #5 Why You Should Make Out With Me
I'm totally awesome at recommending things to people.
What things? Why, anything at all.
Buddy - rent CJ7 when it comes out on DVD
Doug - Broken Social Scene
Marty - Word Wars
Rebecca - Champagne and mango juice
Jay - Critical Mass
Paul - Electric Boy
Todd - buy some fingerpaints
Colleen - Jennifer Government
Carrie - Living Lohan
Tara - fucking Phantom Tollbooth already
Sean - raise goats
Nate - condoms
Also - special recommendation to all of you - DONT EVER MOVE TO FLORIDA.
Seriously. Here's the list we made tonight...
1. Hurricanes
2. Alligators
3. Pythons
4. Cockroaches that eat your eyes while your sleeping
5. Humidity
6. Corrupt republican government
7. Cubans who don't support communism
8. Old People
9. Old Cubans who don't support communism
10. Old Republican Cubans
11. Rush Limbaugh
12. Underwater in 20 years OR baking desert
13. Old Republican Cubans who voted for Giuliani
14. Meth Labs
15. Meth labs situated over large natural gas pockets
16. Sinkholes
17. Street legal golf carts
18. The fact that when I google "worst things about Florida", I get 2260000 hits, and the fourth one down is a story about a guy who recruited three of his buddies to go with him and kill six people because he thought they stole his xbox. And they didn't shoot them, they beat them to death. With baseball bats. Also, it was an xbox, not an xbox360.
19. People regularly go to Florida to die. And not the quick "beat to death by meth-heads way". The walk around for months telling everyone in a 3 mile radius about their proctology appt way.
20. It's fucking hot.
21. People there don't believe in dinosaurs.
22. God hates Florida. He worked hard on those dinosaurs. Hence the guinea pigs. And the hurricanes. And she's probably underage.
See, why would you want to live in a state where the minute any domestic animal went outside, it turned into a viral mutant habitat destroying eat your pet threat?
What things? Why, anything at all.
Buddy - rent CJ7 when it comes out on DVD
Doug - Broken Social Scene
Marty - Word Wars
Rebecca - Champagne and mango juice
Jay - Critical Mass
Paul - Electric Boy
Todd - buy some fingerpaints
Colleen - Jennifer Government
Carrie - Living Lohan
Tara - fucking Phantom Tollbooth already
Sean - raise goats
Nate - condoms
Also - special recommendation to all of you - DONT EVER MOVE TO FLORIDA.
Seriously. Here's the list we made tonight...
1. Hurricanes
2. Alligators
3. Pythons
4. Cockroaches that eat your eyes while your sleeping
5. Humidity
6. Corrupt republican government
7. Cubans who don't support communism
8. Old People
9. Old Cubans who don't support communism
10. Old Republican Cubans
11. Rush Limbaugh
12. Underwater in 20 years OR baking desert
13. Old Republican Cubans who voted for Giuliani
14. Meth Labs
15. Meth labs situated over large natural gas pockets
16. Sinkholes
17. Street legal golf carts
18. The fact that when I google "worst things about Florida", I get 2260000 hits, and the fourth one down is a story about a guy who recruited three of his buddies to go with him and kill six people because he thought they stole his xbox. And they didn't shoot them, they beat them to death. With baseball bats. Also, it was an xbox, not an xbox360.
19. People regularly go to Florida to die. And not the quick "beat to death by meth-heads way". The walk around for months telling everyone in a 3 mile radius about their proctology appt way.
20. It's fucking hot.
21. People there don't believe in dinosaurs.
22. God hates Florida. He worked hard on those dinosaurs. Hence the guinea pigs. And the hurricanes. And she's probably underage.
See, why would you want to live in a state where the minute any domestic animal went outside, it turned into a viral mutant habitat destroying eat your pet threat?
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Fireworks are better than puppies!
In past years, it used to be a given, the long hike down to Edgewater to watch the city fireworks they set off from the beach. The spot itself would change occasionally, but wherever I was that day, we walked with the crowd towards the water, 105.7 Oldies playing from various stereos, kids being dragged by tired dads in wagons and strollers. The radio always played the Top 500 songs of all time, all weekend. I think I knew the words to every song by the time I was 9. Then there was the uncomfortable wait on the grass or asphalt for it to go dark. I think July 4th is the one holiday where even though I have off all day, I want the day to end as fast as possible. So we’d sit. When I was a little kid, this inevitably meant I had to go to the bathroom as soon as we got there. As an adult, this interim involved drinking warm vodka fruit juice from plastic water bottles, and therefore definitely having to go to the bathroom. Those were hot, irritating days, but I always thought the fireworks made up for it.
2 years ago, S. and I went to a party that was nowhere near the beach, so instead we ended up off Abbey Rd above the river flats, by the cat clinic under the bridge, which turned out to be the perfect spot to watch the fireworks set off from Voinovich Park. There was hardly anyone there, and the fireworks went off right above the city. We were closer to the display than I had ever been, and best of all, when it was over, we just got in the car and left. No walking, no horrible traffic jam. Driving home though, through W.25th and the near West side, the sulfur fog hung down on us like a disaster. We were confused by all the smoke. Where had it come from? Was it maybe actually normal fog, cause there was so much of it, there was no way it came from the fireworks we’d just seen. Ignoring the almost certain health risks, it was kinda awesome. It made the city into a horror movie, a sepia toned moor with demon dogs lurking in the corners out of sight. Of course, it had to have come from the neighborhood fireworks, the ones lit off from backyards and side streets. This is what I had been missing every year when we walked to lake. Behind us was Fallujah.
Last year, there were parties, but I couldn’t go. Instead I had an allergic reaction to something (never determined), and my entire body erupted in giant red welts. So when it got dark, I went out on our second story deck to see if I could catch a glimpse. As soon as it got even semi-dark the displays started. As a city girl, I’m used to the small time backyard show, the rattlesnake, machine gun noises from the bombs with lots of noise but no pay-off. I was even familiar with the spectacle of driving down 90w and seeing the occasional big blast. But this show was insane. The entire neighborhood was blowing stuff up. There were at least four houses that had spent hundreds thousands on gunpowder, and the results were spectacular! Amazing! Wonderful! Giant gold plumes, red within silver within blue spangles! And best of all, it was right on top of me! If the wind blew right, the debris landed in my hair! Sulfur in my mouth, my eyes, the proof of chemical awesomeness!
So of course, this year we knew where to go. The neighbors, M. and C., had a party on the deck. We all sat around drinking and eating, while M. and C.’s brother lit off fireworks from the roof. They had tons of them, like 300 dollars worth, but we were no comparison to this guy a few blocks away. He was lighting 5 at a time, and they were all professional grade, and he went on for hours. Not to mention everyone else from last year who outdid themselves again. We had a couple moments of “stupid things to do with gunpowder”, a few times of yelling at M. to not light fountains on the tar roof (“the height of stupidity”), but the only mishap was S. burning his hand with a bottle rocket and someone misplacing the trash can. There were rumors of a “crackdown” on illegal displays this year, but we never even saw a cop drive down the street. The food was great (thanks C.), the drinks were neon (malibu, orange vodka, mountain dew?), and nothing is better than loud technicolor explosions right above your head that could burn themselves into your retinas if you were only 8 ft closer. S. and D. were going to have a bottle rocket duel (yes, where they shoot each other with them, like goggles are going to help anything), but I managed to shame them out of that by referring to it as a Wizards Duel and threatening to shout Harry Potter spells at them while they did it. It was one of the best July 4ths ever, coming in second behind the time we camped out on the edge of the pier, dipping our toes in the water, out of our heads, watching the fireworks from all around the edge of Lake Erie. But it’s a very close second, and that’s only because certain things transpired that day that I can’t talk about here.
And of course, as I was driving home, the city was once again turned into a dark empty smoke filled battlefield, and I could still hear the bombs going off around me. I’ve met people who complain about the noise, who despair that for days before and days after all you hear are rockets and blasters and blam blam blam crack crack crack. I can’t understand it. It’s one of my favorite times of the year, and July 4th in the city is way cooler than sitting in some field somewhere, being eaten by bugs and having to piss.
2 years ago, S. and I went to a party that was nowhere near the beach, so instead we ended up off Abbey Rd above the river flats, by the cat clinic under the bridge, which turned out to be the perfect spot to watch the fireworks set off from Voinovich Park. There was hardly anyone there, and the fireworks went off right above the city. We were closer to the display than I had ever been, and best of all, when it was over, we just got in the car and left. No walking, no horrible traffic jam. Driving home though, through W.25th and the near West side, the sulfur fog hung down on us like a disaster. We were confused by all the smoke. Where had it come from? Was it maybe actually normal fog, cause there was so much of it, there was no way it came from the fireworks we’d just seen. Ignoring the almost certain health risks, it was kinda awesome. It made the city into a horror movie, a sepia toned moor with demon dogs lurking in the corners out of sight. Of course, it had to have come from the neighborhood fireworks, the ones lit off from backyards and side streets. This is what I had been missing every year when we walked to lake. Behind us was Fallujah.
Last year, there were parties, but I couldn’t go. Instead I had an allergic reaction to something (never determined), and my entire body erupted in giant red welts. So when it got dark, I went out on our second story deck to see if I could catch a glimpse. As soon as it got even semi-dark the displays started. As a city girl, I’m used to the small time backyard show, the rattlesnake, machine gun noises from the bombs with lots of noise but no pay-off. I was even familiar with the spectacle of driving down 90w and seeing the occasional big blast. But this show was insane. The entire neighborhood was blowing stuff up. There were at least four houses that had spent hundreds thousands on gunpowder, and the results were spectacular! Amazing! Wonderful! Giant gold plumes, red within silver within blue spangles! And best of all, it was right on top of me! If the wind blew right, the debris landed in my hair! Sulfur in my mouth, my eyes, the proof of chemical awesomeness!
So of course, this year we knew where to go. The neighbors, M. and C., had a party on the deck. We all sat around drinking and eating, while M. and C.’s brother lit off fireworks from the roof. They had tons of them, like 300 dollars worth, but we were no comparison to this guy a few blocks away. He was lighting 5 at a time, and they were all professional grade, and he went on for hours. Not to mention everyone else from last year who outdid themselves again. We had a couple moments of “stupid things to do with gunpowder”, a few times of yelling at M. to not light fountains on the tar roof (“the height of stupidity”), but the only mishap was S. burning his hand with a bottle rocket and someone misplacing the trash can. There were rumors of a “crackdown” on illegal displays this year, but we never even saw a cop drive down the street. The food was great (thanks C.), the drinks were neon (malibu, orange vodka, mountain dew?), and nothing is better than loud technicolor explosions right above your head that could burn themselves into your retinas if you were only 8 ft closer. S. and D. were going to have a bottle rocket duel (yes, where they shoot each other with them, like goggles are going to help anything), but I managed to shame them out of that by referring to it as a Wizards Duel and threatening to shout Harry Potter spells at them while they did it. It was one of the best July 4ths ever, coming in second behind the time we camped out on the edge of the pier, dipping our toes in the water, out of our heads, watching the fireworks from all around the edge of Lake Erie. But it’s a very close second, and that’s only because certain things transpired that day that I can’t talk about here.
And of course, as I was driving home, the city was once again turned into a dark empty smoke filled battlefield, and I could still hear the bombs going off around me. I’ve met people who complain about the noise, who despair that for days before and days after all you hear are rockets and blasters and blam blam blam crack crack crack. I can’t understand it. It’s one of my favorite times of the year, and July 4th in the city is way cooler than sitting in some field somewhere, being eaten by bugs and having to piss.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Independence Day
Yes I am the atheist, anti-war, anti-republican, up with social welfare, tax me more if it saves PBS, drug-infused liberal who believes in global warming, and also the atrocious evil of our collective public mind and foreign policy/perception of the rest of the world....however
I am also a 29yrd old single woman who works for a company that pays her more than a living wage, who can drive my own car, who can go and vote this November, who has access to medical care and libraries and fire departments, who can call the police out just to unlock my car, and who just went to the grocery store and bought peppers and onions and prosciutto and butter for 2.19, and also I can eat ice cream whenever I want and watch soap operas OR Cnn. And I have internet access always, and my utilities stay on, and if I stopped drinking, I would be able to buy plane tickets and fly across the continent on a whim, without a passport. Tonight I will be blowing up illegal fireworks, without fear of retribution or massive beatings from the police, while my friends and I get drunk in public and talk openly about how we hate religion. And all night we will hear explosions and gunfire and sirens, and none of us will be afraid.
So America is not a bad place to be.
I am also a 29yrd old single woman who works for a company that pays her more than a living wage, who can drive my own car, who can go and vote this November, who has access to medical care and libraries and fire departments, who can call the police out just to unlock my car, and who just went to the grocery store and bought peppers and onions and prosciutto and butter for 2.19, and also I can eat ice cream whenever I want and watch soap operas OR Cnn. And I have internet access always, and my utilities stay on, and if I stopped drinking, I would be able to buy plane tickets and fly across the continent on a whim, without a passport. Tonight I will be blowing up illegal fireworks, without fear of retribution or massive beatings from the police, while my friends and I get drunk in public and talk openly about how we hate religion. And all night we will hear explosions and gunfire and sirens, and none of us will be afraid.
So America is not a bad place to be.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Rosellini's Green Porno
Have you seen these yet? Isabella acting out the dynamics of insect sex? In costume?
Marty turned me onto them when they were On Demand, but Sundance took them off already, so watch them on the website.
Marty turned me onto them when they were On Demand, but Sundance took them off already, so watch them on the website.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
I Hate Oasis
And here's even further proof that Noel Gallagher is a Lennon wannabe douchebag...
"Once upon a time, in 1995 and 2004, Oasis headlined the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury, playing to sold-out crowds. The 40-year-old Gallagher pointed to Jay-Z’s spot on the bill as the reason the festival has not yet sold out. This year, 100,000 tickets were sold on the first day, but in past years, the tickets have sold out in a matter of hours.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” Gallagher complained back in April. “If you start to break it, then people aren’t going to go. I’m sorry, but Jay-Z? No chance. Glastonbury has a tradition of guitar music, do you know what I mean? Even when they throw the odd curveball in on a Sunday night and you go, Kylie Minogue? Don’t know about that.”
"According to the BBC, Gallagher also said: “I’m not having hip-hop at Glastonbury. It’s wrong.”
"Once upon a time, in 1995 and 2004, Oasis headlined the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury, playing to sold-out crowds. The 40-year-old Gallagher pointed to Jay-Z’s spot on the bill as the reason the festival has not yet sold out. This year, 100,000 tickets were sold on the first day, but in past years, the tickets have sold out in a matter of hours.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” Gallagher complained back in April. “If you start to break it, then people aren’t going to go. I’m sorry, but Jay-Z? No chance. Glastonbury has a tradition of guitar music, do you know what I mean? Even when they throw the odd curveball in on a Sunday night and you go, Kylie Minogue? Don’t know about that.”
"According to the BBC, Gallagher also said: “I’m not having hip-hop at Glastonbury. It’s wrong.”
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