I've moved.
I have a new haircut.
I'm living in a startlingly wonderful bubble of niceness.
And my roomate doesn't mind when I wake him up by singing Skatman. Because he's the best.
We don't have internet until Saturday, at which point I'm sure the drunken posts will start pouring in. For the time being, drunken posts have been replaced, much to my dismay, by drunken text messages I should not send. Because no one has created a breathalizer function for cell phones yet. Someone, please, create this. Please.
Until Saturday,
Wishing I was Peter Pan,
Singing A Lot of Jock Jams,
Excited for Casey the New Roomate,
Missing my Ability to Look at Dogs on Petfinder,
Mama Kanine.
3.21.2007
Dear Things Are Changing
An ex-boyfriend once taught me that when you're sick, you wear two suits: your orange pants, and your green pajamas. Pants being DayQuil, and pajamas being, thusly, NyQuil. Tonight I put on my green pajamas and wait to become sleepy. It's funny the things you remember from past relationships. I also remember, he used to drink bottles of hot sauce when he had a cold, though that was not a habit I ever picked up.
There is a laundry list of things that are constantly changing for anyone, anywhere, at anytime. When I was in high school I found a quote from Allen Ginsberg that said "That's the thing about life. It goes on". Simple. But at 15 I found it to be some sort of eye-opening peice of wisdom that I had never really thought of before. Life is always going on. At least for someone, somewhere. So I guess, just stop worrying, and just keep moving. Anyway, some things are changing.
Some of some things are:
--Today was the first day of spring. Hello, spring. It didn't feel like spring, but at least now warm rain and rooftops can be anticipated, and late nights that don't feel so late are coming, along with short shorts, and leaking fire hydrants, and happiness, and sweaty bodies.
--I started my job. My first New York paying job. It's good and I'm glad I have it. It's flexible and the people are nice. I redirected male wanna be cowboy models all day and answered phones and moved some boxes. For someone that needs a financial base camp, and a little bit of struture to her weeks, the future looks bright.
--I signed my first lease. My first actual ownership over space. I am now married to a space for the next year, along with my jam-banding companion who signed it with me. At least on paper. It's strange because I know it's something people have to do all the time but I never really immagined myself doing it so soon. We have so much work to do, so many things to build, so many people to come in and complete the home (Lex, I'm looking at you). It's exciting, and also scary. But it feels right. Though, so far, it doesn't feel real.
--The movie is becoming something else. I don't know what it is becoming, but it is changing and evolving dramatically from what it was two months ago. I watch the crazy Turkish man doodling notes and making new charecters and writing large metaphors onto the screen trying to figure it all out. And I don't know if in the end I'll understand it--my aptitude for comprehending art films has never been very great--but I know I was a part of it, and it is a very curious thing to see something you thought you knew evolve into a story you never saw in the beginning.
--My feet are morphing. The left one is, at least. I took my boots off today and looked down and there they were: two things I've stared at all my life, and in little black socks I saw that the left one was starting to slope slightly. Maybe this is a sign that I should invest in some insoles or better shoes, or maybe I should just let it do what it's going to do.
--My laugh is becoming my mothers laugh. My mother's messages are becoming like my grandmother's messages to her, and she always asks "I'm becoming Nanny, aren't I?"
--NyQuil may no longer be the "so you can get some rest medicine". The way things are going right now it's more of the "so you can have a crappy taste in your mouth and wish you could get some rest medicine".
I had other things that were changing, and I felt really amped to write them down (perhaps in an attempt to show myself that things are progressing and I am a creative and evolutionary non-stagnant person), but as it is now, I am mostly just staring into space thinking about dogs, and wether or not my eyes hurt because they're tired or because they're staring at a computer.
More pajamas? Oh brother, let me tell you, I just did. Dreams about dogs? Oh brother, let me tell you, I hope so.
There is a laundry list of things that are constantly changing for anyone, anywhere, at anytime. When I was in high school I found a quote from Allen Ginsberg that said "That's the thing about life. It goes on". Simple. But at 15 I found it to be some sort of eye-opening peice of wisdom that I had never really thought of before. Life is always going on. At least for someone, somewhere. So I guess, just stop worrying, and just keep moving. Anyway, some things are changing.
Some of some things are:
--Today was the first day of spring. Hello, spring. It didn't feel like spring, but at least now warm rain and rooftops can be anticipated, and late nights that don't feel so late are coming, along with short shorts, and leaking fire hydrants, and happiness, and sweaty bodies.
--I started my job. My first New York paying job. It's good and I'm glad I have it. It's flexible and the people are nice. I redirected male wanna be cowboy models all day and answered phones and moved some boxes. For someone that needs a financial base camp, and a little bit of struture to her weeks, the future looks bright.
--I signed my first lease. My first actual ownership over space. I am now married to a space for the next year, along with my jam-banding companion who signed it with me. At least on paper. It's strange because I know it's something people have to do all the time but I never really immagined myself doing it so soon. We have so much work to do, so many things to build, so many people to come in and complete the home (Lex, I'm looking at you). It's exciting, and also scary. But it feels right. Though, so far, it doesn't feel real.
--The movie is becoming something else. I don't know what it is becoming, but it is changing and evolving dramatically from what it was two months ago. I watch the crazy Turkish man doodling notes and making new charecters and writing large metaphors onto the screen trying to figure it all out. And I don't know if in the end I'll understand it--my aptitude for comprehending art films has never been very great--but I know I was a part of it, and it is a very curious thing to see something you thought you knew evolve into a story you never saw in the beginning.
--My feet are morphing. The left one is, at least. I took my boots off today and looked down and there they were: two things I've stared at all my life, and in little black socks I saw that the left one was starting to slope slightly. Maybe this is a sign that I should invest in some insoles or better shoes, or maybe I should just let it do what it's going to do.
--My laugh is becoming my mothers laugh. My mother's messages are becoming like my grandmother's messages to her, and she always asks "I'm becoming Nanny, aren't I?"
--NyQuil may no longer be the "so you can get some rest medicine". The way things are going right now it's more of the "so you can have a crappy taste in your mouth and wish you could get some rest medicine".
I had other things that were changing, and I felt really amped to write them down (perhaps in an attempt to show myself that things are progressing and I am a creative and evolutionary non-stagnant person), but as it is now, I am mostly just staring into space thinking about dogs, and wether or not my eyes hurt because they're tired or because they're staring at a computer.
More pajamas? Oh brother, let me tell you, I just did. Dreams about dogs? Oh brother, let me tell you, I hope so.
3.20.2007
These Are Cold Thoughts
Sleeping through the cold. I am trying to sleep through this cold I have acquired which means that I woke up at 6 this evening with a still-stuffy-nose after dreaming about swollen faces, angry ex-boyfirends, my dog in a cage trapped in the snow, and that same weird summer camp I have been dreaming about for the past year. But still awake, with a cold, and it's already 7.
I want to be a male model. Or I want to be with a male model. I can't decide. Robert "Boyd" Holbrook--has anyone seen this guy? I generally could care less about male models, but seriously, how do people get this good looking? I think I would be willing to fore go the fact that he's probably not that funny, not that smart, and not that intertesting just to hold hands and build forts and take pictures in photobooths and drink long island ice teas with him for a few days.
I don't know if it's that my head is stuffy with a cold and it makes me stupid and slow, or that sometimes things are just like this, but I feel like I am being told stories I don't understand, and I am fearful of writing stories I cannot be a part of, and I worry that the stories I write may not mean anything, and think what if productivity is a fantasy that we have and the leap to its reality is too great for most of us to make, and what if knowing all the "right" people & all the "nice" people the "bright" people is something that makes our tables full at holidays but never helps us learn more & do more, and then I think I am thinking of it the wrong way and I know it will pass in a minute or two but I still won't forget that I've thought it. And how come brilliant people scare me? How come I am affraid to approach them, nervous to talk to them? They are just people. Why do I feel that I don't know how to find what I am looking for and that the looking takes so long? These are cold questions.
I have been hanging out with the man who says "The fish is in the freezer, the whale is on the way" too much and am now thinking in loose foreign metaphors like him. My stories follow nothing, they just open up, let in light, and close into something else, another scene.
This is like robo-tripping without the NyQuil.
The bridge of my nose is bruised from blowing it too much.
I have stories I have to write.
I have bones that want a new project.
I have wants that need patience.
I wish I could breathe through my nose.
I want to be a male model. Or I want to be with a male model. I can't decide. Robert "Boyd" Holbrook--has anyone seen this guy? I generally could care less about male models, but seriously, how do people get this good looking? I think I would be willing to fore go the fact that he's probably not that funny, not that smart, and not that intertesting just to hold hands and build forts and take pictures in photobooths and drink long island ice teas with him for a few days.
I don't know if it's that my head is stuffy with a cold and it makes me stupid and slow, or that sometimes things are just like this, but I feel like I am being told stories I don't understand, and I am fearful of writing stories I cannot be a part of, and I worry that the stories I write may not mean anything, and think what if productivity is a fantasy that we have and the leap to its reality is too great for most of us to make, and what if knowing all the "right" people & all the "nice" people the "bright" people is something that makes our tables full at holidays but never helps us learn more & do more, and then I think I am thinking of it the wrong way and I know it will pass in a minute or two but I still won't forget that I've thought it. And how come brilliant people scare me? How come I am affraid to approach them, nervous to talk to them? They are just people. Why do I feel that I don't know how to find what I am looking for and that the looking takes so long? These are cold questions.
I have been hanging out with the man who says "The fish is in the freezer, the whale is on the way" too much and am now thinking in loose foreign metaphors like him. My stories follow nothing, they just open up, let in light, and close into something else, another scene.
This is like robo-tripping without the NyQuil.
The bridge of my nose is bruised from blowing it too much.
I have stories I have to write.
I have bones that want a new project.
I have wants that need patience.
I wish I could breathe through my nose.
3.14.2007
Dear The Pop Song About Remembering To Breathe
*DISCLAIMER: I do not have the ability to spell check this. Bear with me*
Remember when I listened to you about 40 times in the past two days? Remember how we promised not to tell anyone about it? Shhh.
Anyway
We lit the candle and the candle has stayed lit like I promised it would, because it has to, because we're not the only ones listening, because there's a reason it has, and I know it will burn down until there is nothing left like I told you it would. Fire puts out water, don't worry. Loss makes believers out of us. Or it can, if we let ourselves believe it.
So I haven't slept really for the past two days, which actually means that on Monday I finally fell asleep at 8:30 and woke at 10:30, and last night, when I had the pressing need to get a full nights sleep, I layed awake from 11 until 3:45 in the morning, rolling around and trying every "trick your body into falling asleep" I had ever been taught, until finally I was swearing at myself and marching to and from the bathroom thinking there must be something wrong with me. At first I was very hot, and then my body began to feel like it was being attacked. Like little lightening bugs were biting into my body--my thighs, my knuckles, my neck, my chest, my back, my head, my stomach, the tops of my feet. It stung, it itched, it burned, it was uncomfortable. I spent the whole night thinking I had bedbugs. After going to my first day of work I came back to Brooklyn and tried to nap several times, every time finding my body being stung and shocked by the invisible somethings that kept me from staying still for more than 45 seconds. So then I realized it was not bedbugs at all. But in fact what I have been expereincing is some form of poor circulation and that all of my body is "falling asleep" while I am trying to. Thank you, body. Taking the subway back to my new temporary home I experienced several other physical discomforts that I am not melodramatic enough to mention but made me concerned about my journey none the less. And I said to myself that when I got here I would just stretch for a long time & go to bed, but when I got here I knew that it was bogus, and decided on drinking red wine and talking to my mother (the "go for it" talks) instead, as something that would just put me at ease long enough for my body to fall asleep so I can. Thank you, mom. Thank you, red wine. I hate you, body lightening bugs. This is going to be me, trying to sleep, attempt #3. Third time's a charm.
And I think I can continue on from here a little bigger. I realized tonight, what do I have to lose in doing the tiny things that could get me where I want? My pride? (please.) Remember in high school when I wrote 18 pages a day because I was too consumed with something to pre-judge myself about it? I do. Why can't things be like that again? They can, can't they? In the mental bonfire of my in-the-woods-acoustic-mind everyone is singing "gonna go ahead and go boldly, cause a little bird told me that jumping is easy, that falling is fun..." eventhough no one has done that sing-a-long yet to date, except my butch friend at 16 when we were in her hoopty driving through Tacoma.
And telling someone something that really matters to you and having them react the way you thought they might is 1. gratifying because you are right, but 2. dissapointing because you wanted to be able to expect more. It can't even be said in a funny way. Because they know very well what you are saying. And you wish they would have been able to reflect the same, given the history of time. But they can't, or they choose not to. I don't pretend to know which. Thanks, "they". Maybe someday when I actually die it will hit home.
But I will never actually die. I will find Neverland before then.
Let's make big things. Let's make big creative things and decide what they mean after the fact. Let's decide what they mean first and then make something different. Let's all take a car to the coast and sleep in tents and let's sleep on the roof--it is so nice right now in the city and let's look at the lights--, and let's doccument our best summers, and let's make our best springs, and let's stop having dreams about men with razor blades and make dreams about beautiful snakes in our pockets, and let's buy ice cream and irish cider just because, and let's talk to people we're affraid of and not be pussies, and let's make a second draft, and let's find a second job, and let's say nice things, and let's try and say what we mean, and let's look back but only now and then when it is late and we're waiting for a train, and let's start being morally dedicated and not morrally corrupt, and let's make a poem again, and let's pee in an alley, and let's hold hands, and let's meet new people and take them on our next adventure, and let's have our next adventure, and let's be brave. Let's just be more brave.
Remember when I listened to you about 40 times in the past two days? Remember how we promised not to tell anyone about it? Shhh.
Anyway
We lit the candle and the candle has stayed lit like I promised it would, because it has to, because we're not the only ones listening, because there's a reason it has, and I know it will burn down until there is nothing left like I told you it would. Fire puts out water, don't worry. Loss makes believers out of us. Or it can, if we let ourselves believe it.
So I haven't slept really for the past two days, which actually means that on Monday I finally fell asleep at 8:30 and woke at 10:30, and last night, when I had the pressing need to get a full nights sleep, I layed awake from 11 until 3:45 in the morning, rolling around and trying every "trick your body into falling asleep" I had ever been taught, until finally I was swearing at myself and marching to and from the bathroom thinking there must be something wrong with me. At first I was very hot, and then my body began to feel like it was being attacked. Like little lightening bugs were biting into my body--my thighs, my knuckles, my neck, my chest, my back, my head, my stomach, the tops of my feet. It stung, it itched, it burned, it was uncomfortable. I spent the whole night thinking I had bedbugs. After going to my first day of work I came back to Brooklyn and tried to nap several times, every time finding my body being stung and shocked by the invisible somethings that kept me from staying still for more than 45 seconds. So then I realized it was not bedbugs at all. But in fact what I have been expereincing is some form of poor circulation and that all of my body is "falling asleep" while I am trying to. Thank you, body. Taking the subway back to my new temporary home I experienced several other physical discomforts that I am not melodramatic enough to mention but made me concerned about my journey none the less. And I said to myself that when I got here I would just stretch for a long time & go to bed, but when I got here I knew that it was bogus, and decided on drinking red wine and talking to my mother (the "go for it" talks) instead, as something that would just put me at ease long enough for my body to fall asleep so I can. Thank you, mom. Thank you, red wine. I hate you, body lightening bugs. This is going to be me, trying to sleep, attempt #3. Third time's a charm.
And I think I can continue on from here a little bigger. I realized tonight, what do I have to lose in doing the tiny things that could get me where I want? My pride? (please.) Remember in high school when I wrote 18 pages a day because I was too consumed with something to pre-judge myself about it? I do. Why can't things be like that again? They can, can't they? In the mental bonfire of my in-the-woods-acoustic-mind everyone is singing "gonna go ahead and go boldly, cause a little bird told me that jumping is easy, that falling is fun..." eventhough no one has done that sing-a-long yet to date, except my butch friend at 16 when we were in her hoopty driving through Tacoma.
And telling someone something that really matters to you and having them react the way you thought they might is 1. gratifying because you are right, but 2. dissapointing because you wanted to be able to expect more. It can't even be said in a funny way. Because they know very well what you are saying. And you wish they would have been able to reflect the same, given the history of time. But they can't, or they choose not to. I don't pretend to know which. Thanks, "they". Maybe someday when I actually die it will hit home.
But I will never actually die. I will find Neverland before then.
Let's make big things. Let's make big creative things and decide what they mean after the fact. Let's decide what they mean first and then make something different. Let's all take a car to the coast and sleep in tents and let's sleep on the roof--it is so nice right now in the city and let's look at the lights--, and let's doccument our best summers, and let's make our best springs, and let's stop having dreams about men with razor blades and make dreams about beautiful snakes in our pockets, and let's buy ice cream and irish cider just because, and let's talk to people we're affraid of and not be pussies, and let's make a second draft, and let's find a second job, and let's say nice things, and let's try and say what we mean, and let's look back but only now and then when it is late and we're waiting for a train, and let's start being morally dedicated and not morrally corrupt, and let's make a poem again, and let's pee in an alley, and let's hold hands, and let's meet new people and take them on our next adventure, and let's have our next adventure, and let's be brave. Let's just be more brave.
3.10.2007
A Tree Falls in Brooklyn: Precious Private Moments
I just did that thing where you go to sit on a chair, but the chair rolls out from under you and you fall to the floor in awkward slow-motion. And since I am all by myself and have spent most of the day wondering where the hell everyone I know is, and thinking that maybe I slept through all of Saturday and today is actually SUNday, and knocking myself in the head for inviting a strange bald man to a party and giving him my phone number which he is now using (Note to drunken self: just because someone else has experience dumpster diving and is also in awe of the all-freegan community doesn't make you automatic buddies, especially not when you're sober the next day), and wondering why I find the show Will & Grace cute and funny when most people I know find it offensive and counter-progressive, and feeling sad about the fact that I burn eggs no matter what I do every time I cook them & I should just eat a Popsicle instead---because of all of these things, once I slow-motion fell and attempted to brace myself on several things along the way down (the chair, a computer, this keyboard, a desk, the couch, & again the chair)once I was on the floor, in an awkward pile, I just sat there and laughed, out loud, at myself, all alone, for a very long time.
So if a girl falls in an apartment in Bushwick but no one's home because they're all elsewhere having fun without her, does anyone hear her laugh when she hits the floor?
So if a girl falls in an apartment in Bushwick but no one's home because they're all elsewhere having fun without her, does anyone hear her laugh when she hits the floor?
3.09.2007
Dear Wiener Time
Fear of going to hang out with talented people & being not-so-talented outweighs actually going to hang out with talented people who are really fun & like to drink. Lame. What a wiener. Looks like it's another slow Friday night in Brooklyn instead, where I can be a wiener in the privacy of my other friend's homes.
3.08.2007
The Self Resistsance
Don't let me do it.
Don;t let me do it.
Don't let me do it.
It's 6:30 in the moring.
Don;t let me do it.
Don"T.
See these typos?
Don't let me.
Don;t let me do it.
Don't let me do it.
It's 6:30 in the moring.
Don;t let me do it.
Don"T.
See these typos?
Don't let me.
The Good Things
--I have a job now. Yeah! Though I know a couple of days ago I had next to nothing, shortly after I wrote about the prospects of becoming a sexual service phone operator I got 2 job interviews. And I only went to one. And it worked out. I am moving up in the world. Thanks to the wife. Thanks wife! Purpose in this city step one.
--A friend of mine discovered he could break the lease on the closet he is renting in Union Square and within the last 48 hours we have realized we can be living together (and with numerous strangers to be determined at a latter date--look out, strangers) by the 1st. Amazing. Mama's going to have her real apartment, and not some place she has to crawl around in in the dark, making tubs of ramen at 4 in the morning when everyone else is asleep. And Mama can have a dog. Something is certainly right in the world.
--Also doing some writing with people who know their shit, which is both intimidating and amazing. But since alcohol is involved, hopefully at some point in the night they will be too drunk to realize how young and inexperienced I am, and that's when I will sic my opus on them. And by opus I mean the thing I am writing.
--After shouting enough the other night about feminism in music to a friend, he finally said "not all men are the same" even though last he spoke anything about males he said "all men are the same", but he agreed to listen to some "female" music and he likes it. Or at least I think he does. Call me a femi-nazi, but I still think that anyone who listens to predominantly male music has something to talk about. Well, some things never change. Just like boys never get over Kurt Cobain when they're 15, some girls have things that make them want to break things and scream and dance on roof tops no matter how old they become. Or maybe that's just me.
So, 3 great things. Sub-great thing: I will be getting a dog when I move! Hail something! This is news-worthy! Everyone knows I will be laughing and crying simultaneously for about a month once it happens. Ultimate cuteness party of the future.
On the other side sits the rest of my life, which can't be discussed. Just let's focus on the 3+ good things. And just let's sleep without worrying, or forgetting, or remembering too much, or drinking till we puke, or drinking so we never sleep, or sleeping with the wrong people, or don't sleep alone, or get to be alone and can't dig our way out, or get out but can't get back, or don't want to look back, or want the adventure but don't want the consequences, or forget there are any, or don't know what we're saying when we keep talking, and we keep talking because we're afraid to stop, but we don't know what we're talking about anymore, and by the time we realize where we are the sun is coming up, and we're not done, not done yet. And we're done denying things are important. And we're tired of apathy and irony. But maybe we're not. Maybe that's just me.
--A friend of mine discovered he could break the lease on the closet he is renting in Union Square and within the last 48 hours we have realized we can be living together (and with numerous strangers to be determined at a latter date--look out, strangers) by the 1st. Amazing. Mama's going to have her real apartment, and not some place she has to crawl around in in the dark, making tubs of ramen at 4 in the morning when everyone else is asleep. And Mama can have a dog. Something is certainly right in the world.
--Also doing some writing with people who know their shit, which is both intimidating and amazing. But since alcohol is involved, hopefully at some point in the night they will be too drunk to realize how young and inexperienced I am, and that's when I will sic my opus on them. And by opus I mean the thing I am writing.
--After shouting enough the other night about feminism in music to a friend, he finally said "not all men are the same" even though last he spoke anything about males he said "all men are the same", but he agreed to listen to some "female" music and he likes it. Or at least I think he does. Call me a femi-nazi, but I still think that anyone who listens to predominantly male music has something to talk about. Well, some things never change. Just like boys never get over Kurt Cobain when they're 15, some girls have things that make them want to break things and scream and dance on roof tops no matter how old they become. Or maybe that's just me.
So, 3 great things. Sub-great thing: I will be getting a dog when I move! Hail something! This is news-worthy! Everyone knows I will be laughing and crying simultaneously for about a month once it happens. Ultimate cuteness party of the future.
On the other side sits the rest of my life, which can't be discussed. Just let's focus on the 3+ good things. And just let's sleep without worrying, or forgetting, or remembering too much, or drinking till we puke, or drinking so we never sleep, or sleeping with the wrong people, or don't sleep alone, or get to be alone and can't dig our way out, or get out but can't get back, or don't want to look back, or want the adventure but don't want the consequences, or forget there are any, or don't know what we're saying when we keep talking, and we keep talking because we're afraid to stop, but we don't know what we're talking about anymore, and by the time we realize where we are the sun is coming up, and we're not done, not done yet. And we're done denying things are important. And we're tired of apathy and irony. But maybe we're not. Maybe that's just me.
3.06.2007
A Small Green Frog Said
"There's so many strange places that I'd like to be,
but none of them permanently."
but none of them permanently."
3.05.2007
Mark Hammer Died
Most of you all probably don't know who Mark Hammer is, and that's ok.
He died a couple of weeks ago, and I avoided opening the email about it until tonight. I didn't know what I was opening when I read it, and when I read it, well, I sat down and cried for quite a while. I won't try and recreate it for you.
But sometimes you meet a man, and you know he has a certain weight. He has certain things to say to those that proceed him, and you know that he needs to say them while he is still fit and able. Mark Hammer was that kind of man. And I don't know if he was ever able to relate everything he knew before he died, probably not, but I hope he was able to impart something. I know he said a lot to me without saying anything at all, just whizzing his wheelchair up and down the hallway banging into things, and asking me to make salads for him, and opening the door to his bedroom, and lecturing me about the trade of reading up on what you presuppose to want to study.
And Mark, I won't go into it now, since I already went into it once before tonight, but you were greatly appreciated, and by those that can claim so, greatly loved. You were a man of many powers, which you could never let anyone forget, even without legs, and you will be forever remembered in the art of the thing you loved so much.
Good luck out there.
He died a couple of weeks ago, and I avoided opening the email about it until tonight. I didn't know what I was opening when I read it, and when I read it, well, I sat down and cried for quite a while. I won't try and recreate it for you.
But sometimes you meet a man, and you know he has a certain weight. He has certain things to say to those that proceed him, and you know that he needs to say them while he is still fit and able. Mark Hammer was that kind of man. And I don't know if he was ever able to relate everything he knew before he died, probably not, but I hope he was able to impart something. I know he said a lot to me without saying anything at all, just whizzing his wheelchair up and down the hallway banging into things, and asking me to make salads for him, and opening the door to his bedroom, and lecturing me about the trade of reading up on what you presuppose to want to study.
And Mark, I won't go into it now, since I already went into it once before tonight, but you were greatly appreciated, and by those that can claim so, greatly loved. You were a man of many powers, which you could never let anyone forget, even without legs, and you will be forever remembered in the art of the thing you loved so much.
Good luck out there.
3.04.2007
@@@Females With Sexxxy Voices Wanted For Phone Acting! Work From Home!@@@
The only thing I need more than beer, dogs, and tacos is a job.
I need a job.
Has anyone, ever, in the history of this city, who's not looking for a lifetime career, isn't willing to man up and do phone sex, and doesn't have 18 years of previous restaurant experience, ever actually gotten a job from craigslist?
I've been looking long enough that I've gotten lost and don't even know what my marketable skills are anymore. I can barely remember my social security number for tax purposes.
"You just gotta get out there, you know, send your resume to everyone, walk in and act like you were born to do the job when you firmly shake hands with the manager, you know, just do it!"
Seems lately I only have the where-with-all and ability to "just do it" at 1:30 in the morning on a weeknight after a couple of 'cold ones' and a brief but emphatic tirade through "I'm so awesome at so many things" land, resulting in my self-confidant belief that I can go out there and get 14 jobs if I want to, because "I am the master of my domain" and "the world is my oyster" and "yeah, you know what? they would LOVE to hire me".
But you cannot apply for jobs at 1:30 in the morning. You simply cannot.
I need a job.
Has anyone, ever, in the history of this city, who's not looking for a lifetime career, isn't willing to man up and do phone sex, and doesn't have 18 years of previous restaurant experience, ever actually gotten a job from craigslist?
I've been looking long enough that I've gotten lost and don't even know what my marketable skills are anymore. I can barely remember my social security number for tax purposes.
"You just gotta get out there, you know, send your resume to everyone, walk in and act like you were born to do the job when you firmly shake hands with the manager, you know, just do it!"
Seems lately I only have the where-with-all and ability to "just do it" at 1:30 in the morning on a weeknight after a couple of 'cold ones' and a brief but emphatic tirade through "I'm so awesome at so many things" land, resulting in my self-confidant belief that I can go out there and get 14 jobs if I want to, because "I am the master of my domain" and "the world is my oyster" and "yeah, you know what? they would LOVE to hire me".
But you cannot apply for jobs at 1:30 in the morning. You simply cannot.
2.28.2007
Rockin' Grannies
I keep reading everywhere that 30 is the new 13. I think that's some kind of TV show. And Jay-Z says 30 is the new 21. And Shia LaBeouf, or someone posing as him (see: celebrity myspace profiles. Also see: Things I feel but are too ridiculous to admit about young famous dudes, even here on the internet) claims that 20 is the new 17. People are writing articles about this shit all over the place (most commonly reffering to 30 being the new 21). It's everywhere. Something older is the new something younger.
Ok, yes America, let's do this. I am ON-board. Let's keep making it cooler to be older, because then, eventually, when I'm 45, it will be completely socially acceptable for me to have a burgeoning hip-hop career, a crappy part time job, hang overs from partying until 4 am, and a closet full of costume peices I regularly try to pass off as actual outfits. This is awesome! Because, if we keep going on at this rate, by the time I'm 45 it will be considered the new 34, which used to be the new 23, which is how old I am now, and essentially I'll never have to grow up! Awesome! Yes! Or, at least, I won't be so upset about getting older, and eventually becoming boring and unsightly to the youth of generations to come.
I am so into this trend I hope it never stops. Something young can never become the new something old. We can never look back. We have to keep making old things younger and younger. We have to!
And it sounds like I'm joking, but anyone who knows me is reading this right now and laughing because I couldn't be more excited to find out that 23 can be the new 15. YESSSSSSSSSS!
2.25.2007
An Ode to my Mother, Horses, and James Taylor
So, I have now come to the point in the night where I saw the academy awards and I drank maybe 8 glasses of wine, and I cried when James Taylor sang, and I didn't feel bad for it since I have heard him since I was minus 9 months old, in the womb, my mother holding her belly up to stereo speakers as she cried "yes I'm fine any time she's around me now", and ever since the doctors brought me to her in the hospital, and she looked at me, drugged up and beautiful, and said "I have found my soul mate", I can never quite divorce myself from that, and am always slightly thinking, "if you don't understand me, I have no need for you--I have found my soul mate" even though that soul mate may be my mother, and that makes me less than something, but I still can't help it, despite myself. I have jumped off cliffs, I have eaten from garbage cans, I have slept with strangers, but I have always loved my mother the most. My mother will always be that woman with the giant hair, constantly ridding a brown horse across the Indian reservation, always trading silver and late night conversations to do the best thing possible, somewhere in Montana or the most familiar northwest, asking for clever catch phrases and folk songs and pieces of turquoise. She will always be the thing that reminds me of my first swear word, and all my best smells, and giant chairs, and my cousin's first room before he died, and the edge of the sea before I understood what the shore really was, and staying in the car when it took you through other people's cities, and the beauty of a bottle of nail polish when you use it for your feet, and my great desire for pink and purple Popsicles & K-Mart toys, and my great distaste for raw fish--and she doesn't even have to do anything, she just has to exist. She is there every time I make a bad joke in public and no one laughs, she is there when I don't know what decision to make so I don't do anything at all, she is there when James Taylor plays at the Academy Awards and I am crying on Gekko's futon all by myself wondering how it is all happening to begin with. But, I know. My emotional unit (thanks, mom, I cry over every cartoon, I'm real popular with friends). She's the only one who never tells me I'm wrong. She's the only one who applauds every time I make a finger painting of an Italian man stringing spaghetti together. She's the only one who will wake up the next morning and tell me she still means everything she said. And, maybe I am being a little over-zealous. Maybe I am speaking too fairly of her. But if you ever knew her, you would know it all to be true. She is just that little wonder, constantly dancing, and riding horses, and turning around to you to tell you you'll hold on in the end even when you think your horse is getting away from you. The metaphor of my mother and horses can go on forever.
I love you, mommy.
"I've seen fire & I've seen rain, I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end, I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend, but I always thought I would see you again".
I love you, mommy.
"I've seen fire & I've seen rain, I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end, I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend, but I always thought I would see you again".
2.24.2007
Dog Time
I be-lieve last Friday night I was found sitting on the internet just like this. Oh, no, today is Saturday. No matter.
Here are some dogs I want.
Chachi. Can't you just imagine a tiny hat on top of his head and some salsa music playing as he hops around on his tiny, teeny legs? I can. Plus, this guy is moving into senior citizen territory and no one is adopting him, which makes me want him even more.
Chester. I'm not kidding. I know I call a lot of dogs (and babies) nuggets, but THIS GUY is the definition of a Nugget. This guy is the Nugget King. You KNOW I would never stop loving the crap out of this dog. Also, he's old. Double points.
Ok, well, technically this is a bunny, but his name is actually Floppy and he's just sitting in the Animal Control Center in Brooklyn with a bunch of loud dogs. Someone please adopt this bunny.
Lucky. Now, I know that's not the greatest name, but this guy clearly would be cool with somebody changing it because, as anyone can see, he is probably the most majestic dog on the planet. I dream about running through golden fields and jumping off rooftops with this dog.
Here are some dogs I want.
Chachi. Can't you just imagine a tiny hat on top of his head and some salsa music playing as he hops around on his tiny, teeny legs? I can. Plus, this guy is moving into senior citizen territory and no one is adopting him, which makes me want him even more.
Chester. I'm not kidding. I know I call a lot of dogs (and babies) nuggets, but THIS GUY is the definition of a Nugget. This guy is the Nugget King. You KNOW I would never stop loving the crap out of this dog. Also, he's old. Double points.
Ok, well, technically this is a bunny, but his name is actually Floppy and he's just sitting in the Animal Control Center in Brooklyn with a bunch of loud dogs. Someone please adopt this bunny.
Lucky. Now, I know that's not the greatest name, but this guy clearly would be cool with somebody changing it because, as anyone can see, he is probably the most majestic dog on the planet. I dream about running through golden fields and jumping off rooftops with this dog.
Dear neo-femenism
I just want to say, I just want to ask, what happened to respect? What happened to rational thinking and respect? Have I been living in a tunnel my entire life? I think something is happening and then someone tries to you-know-what-me. And when I try and say something about it I am just called a feminist. But I'm called it like it is a dirty, inexcusable word. Most of the time I swallow the whole thing. But sometimes I have to ask: If you say you are my friend why do you run away so easily? Why do you invalidate the uncomfortable things? What does my body have to do with my gratitude?
If I have feminist roots, if I listen to feminist songs, if I only sometimes voice feminist opinions, if I cover up my sensitive feelings, does that totally invalidate me when something bad happens? Well, does it?
If I have feminist roots, if I listen to feminist songs, if I only sometimes voice feminist opinions, if I cover up my sensitive feelings, does that totally invalidate me when something bad happens? Well, does it?
2.23.2007
Let's Just Do This
I have stumbled upon something that is either too sad or too strange to be true. The bizarre existence of famous people's supposedly real myspace accounts. That's right. I looked. Just like I looked at Daniel Radcliffe's you-know-what. I figured, famous people can't entirely hide from the internet. They too must want to keep in contact with random people they knew in their formative years, and parade cell phone self portraits to the masses, and have something to do when they're drunk and bored.
As it turns out, if you can find one sort-of celebrity's profile, it pretty much locks you in to an unending ring of their other "famous" friends. The fun goes on for hours. And I'm not supposing that these are actually real myspace profiles (since crazies are always creating profiles for their "crushes" or idols), but I am supposing that if they're not, there is someone out there who is both overly obsessed and has way too much time on their hands. The web of celebrities is so intricate that I don't know who would be able to fabricate it.
Case for authenticity: pictures that no paparazzi or deranged fan could find on their own. Plus, linking to friends of theirs who are also famous (kind of) but you completely forgot about (The kid from Sandlot 2? Who would make that up?).
Case for obvious fraud: they all sound like bonheads. "Hey, what's up. My name is Jake (Gyllenhaal). Some of the movies I've been in are (.....). I like biking, acting, and hanging out with friends." and so on. Are you kidding me? is that really as interesting as you can be? Wow. (also, according to Jake Gyllenhaal's myspace, Brokeback Mountain is one of his favorite movies, and he is *explicitly* single. Picking up girls on myspace???).
So, if it is to be believed that some celebrities actually do have their own profiles on the internet, and that I have found them, then there are some sad, unfortunate conclusions to be drawn.
--Famous people have horrible taste in music. Not only is it horrible, it is also completely lazy. Offspring + Jack Johnson? Are you even trying???
--They have no mercy about presenting themselves as acting icons and not people.
--They talk like the dudes you knew in high school who high-fived their bros after someone farted really loud at the kegger after the big homecoming game.
--They have a really terrible fashion sense. Like, weird bad polo fleeces and giant white-gangsta baseball caps.
--They make it appear that hanging out with them in real life would be about as much fun as eating cardboard boxes and watching C-Span with the volume down while playing Old Maid with your next door neighbor's accountant. Not the worst thing in the world, but also not on the list of enjoyable things either.
On an ending note, Chad Michael Murray's profile headline is "When you realize you're alive, you can live life!"
He's so inspirational!
Dear Daniel Radcliffe
Ew, gross. I just saw Daniel Radcliffe's penis. Though I know by now I am probably the last person in the world to have seen this photo (it's everywhere--Anna Nicole's "murder", Britney Spears being a nut job, and Harry Potter's, well, nuts), I abstained from looking at it for as long as possible. Really I did. I saw the picture of his butt, and I thought, "good show, Radcliffe, well played". But I felt I would be doing something wrong to see his milk and cookies, as it were. Despite, of course, the fact that they are only exposed due to a piece of theater, and not because he went out clubbing like a hooch and some camera man got all up in his piece. Yes, despite that, and the fact that I don't really have emotions towards the Harry Potter movies in general, I still felt somewhat dirty about it. And then, as I was done with my work and sitting around on a Friday afternoon, home all alone, the constant taunting of tabloid websites eventually got the best of me. And I totally looked. Daniel Radcliffe, his wiener, and a majestic white horse. Well, there we are. The four of us all together.
I don't know what the point of talking about it is, really, except that sharing your experience of staring at an 18 year old's "duty frees" on the internet somehow makes it less pervy.
I don't know what the point of talking about it is, really, except that sharing your experience of staring at an 18 year old's "duty frees" on the internet somehow makes it less pervy.
2.19.2007
Housebroken
Well, I did it. Today marks my first "official" "semi-official" "will be seen by strangers, maybe, at some point in the future" day of shooting for a "feature length film" (see, there's not an un-douchy way to say it, so I thought putting it in quotes might help. Turns out, it doesn't. I still sound like a douche). Anyway, the entire thing is very confusing, and you do something a million times, and before you know it it's over, and the whole touchy-feely "process" you are taught and get to experience in college is totally skipped over. I was just there, and now it's done. Apparently, I don't look like an albino radish on camera after all. Well, so far. It is funny how most expectations I had to be really freaked out doing it were dissapointed by the actuality that somehow I showed up, and just did it (well, I also played with my arm fat, took a nap, sang 80's songs, and smoked cigarettes, but what can you do). I guess my flipping out about it will probably come a few weeks from now when I realize what I've actually done and that it's done permanently. At least I can count on myself to set my anxieties aside to do the damn thing I suppose.
Anyway, the point is, Justin Theroux, wherever he is, should be proud. Years ago he told me just to relax. Well buddy, apparently I can. Officially housebroken.
Anyway, the point is, Justin Theroux, wherever he is, should be proud. Years ago he told me just to relax. Well buddy, apparently I can. Officially housebroken.
2.16.2007
Slow Friday
The only thing more boring than a slow Friday night, is a slow Friday night where you get dressed up to do something, but that / those something(s) turn out to be so uneventful that you don't even leave the house. I feel like that waitress in "It Could Happen To You", except instead of having Nicholas Cage walk in and give me a winning lottery ticket to brighten my spirits, I am drinking Coors Light and trekking to Manhattan to drink more expensive beer and scowl the entire night. Maybe this is God telling me to just go to sleep for once. If it is, the rebellious, angst-ridden 17 year old in me is going to have fun just to spite him. Or at least try. Also, I hate it when people call Nicholas Cage "Nic" Cage. Are you his personal friend? Didn't think so. Also, Face-Off is an American classic.
Also, I was listening to the SILO 2006 album for a hot minute today, and, fellas, I have some news for you. Playing a cd backwards and looping it over a track of another cd being played backwards in slow motion is not music. It is sounds, but it is not music. Yes, I might get the feeling I am in a cardboard tube floating underwater in a stream somewhere with slinkys tightly wrapped around my neck, but. I didn't. And, even if I had, I still say, not music. I realize half the people I know from Bennington would argue with me, but I don't understand your fancy terms, and I don't want to talk about John Cage, or X dude who has a funny sounding name, for the 5,ooo time. But then, that's why I'm not a progressive, enlightened musician....
Also, what am I doing? It is Friday night. Why am I on the internet.
Also, I was listening to the SILO 2006 album for a hot minute today, and, fellas, I have some news for you. Playing a cd backwards and looping it over a track of another cd being played backwards in slow motion is not music. It is sounds, but it is not music. Yes, I might get the feeling I am in a cardboard tube floating underwater in a stream somewhere with slinkys tightly wrapped around my neck, but. I didn't. And, even if I had, I still say, not music. I realize half the people I know from Bennington would argue with me, but I don't understand your fancy terms, and I don't want to talk about John Cage, or X dude who has a funny sounding name, for the 5,ooo time. But then, that's why I'm not a progressive, enlightened musician....
Also, what am I doing? It is Friday night. Why am I on the internet.
2.15.2007
Mind is a Razorblade
First, I don't understand this "new blogger" business. They made me switch, and if I'm being honest, I have to admit, I didn't really understand the "original blogger" in the first place. The type seems very small, and I don't actually have a "google account". Needless to say, we're totally lost now. It's like my mom trying to order me plane tickets over the phone. ("password???? Car, WHAT DOES THIS MEAN????? WHERE IS OUR PASSWORD????!!!!!)
Second, some things:
There is a snow slope in our back alley. It is more fun than when you were actually 8 years old.
Sub second: I forgot the other things I was going to say. Water under the invisible bridge.
Funny that for no apparent reason, small amounts of beer have gone to my head, and it is late at night, and I was "tagged" to do this thing, which normally I would have thought more about, but under current circumstances I just felt kind of excited that someone would be interested enough in my 'blogging' to involve me in a non-myspace, ok-cupid, what-have-you questionaire, so I'm doing it right now. Right. Now. Questions. Topics. Addressed.
"The Rules : Each player of this game starts with the “6 weird things about you." People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own re: 6 weird things, as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says “you are tagged” in their comments and tell them to read your blog."
Six Weird Things About Me
1. I am not afraid of many things, when you get down to it, but I have a giant, non-ironic fear of teeth. Too many teeth. I cannot sit still or fall asleep when I think of too many teeth. My friend Sammy used to taunt me by describing "fields of teeth" or "teeth growing out of arms". He didn't even have to try, really. Something about it makes me want to vomit and cry at the same time. Mostly it makes me want to cry. I can't handle it.
2. I like the smell of dog's breath. I find it comforting. There. I said it in public.
1. SUB ANSWER: I HATE honeycombs. Hate is an understatement. As Liam would describe: "Her reaction to the honeycomb honey in a box that i had bought brought about the idea of torture for the first time in my mind. Dangling the container that contained the honeycomb in it over Carlee's bed as she awoke was the most exciting thing in the world for me." I can't even get into how terrified that made me feel.
3. No one. And I mean NO ONE is allowed to wear socks in bed. Nope. No one. ESPECIALLY if there is sex involved. I won't do it. I will not climb into that bed with you.
4. When I was a little kid I used to have very strong feelings for inatimate objects. Like I used to save the wrappers for things because I thought they had feelings too. I would put them in secret places with my jewelry, and my most prized stuffed animals. I would take them out and pay attention to them like I would my real belongings. I would save them for years.
5. Sometimes I get drunk and, once I'm alone, I sexy dance. Uninhibitedly sexy dance. By myself. Though, come to think of it, that's more embarassing than weird.
6. Occasionally I pluck my leg hairs. For hours. It is unendlessly satisfying.
DVD Extra: I love porn. I love men who can sew. I hate anise flavored things (I think the jury is pretty 50/50 on this in general, but still). I have the entire Sarah McLaughan album "Surfacing" memorized. I tell jokes to myself out loud when I'm alone. Again, more embarassing than weird.
On that note, goodnight, America. I tag Julie-Lou. and Eric, whether or not this still exists., and kitten4evaeva a.k.a. KAT. because they are the only other blogs I know.
Second, some things:
There is a snow slope in our back alley. It is more fun than when you were actually 8 years old.
Sub second: I forgot the other things I was going to say. Water under the invisible bridge.
Funny that for no apparent reason, small amounts of beer have gone to my head, and it is late at night, and I was "tagged" to do this thing, which normally I would have thought more about, but under current circumstances I just felt kind of excited that someone would be interested enough in my 'blogging' to involve me in a non-myspace, ok-cupid, what-have-you questionaire, so I'm doing it right now. Right. Now. Questions. Topics. Addressed.
"The Rules : Each player of this game starts with the “6 weird things about you." People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own re: 6 weird things, as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says “you are tagged” in their comments and tell them to read your blog."
Six Weird Things About Me
1. I am not afraid of many things, when you get down to it, but I have a giant, non-ironic fear of teeth. Too many teeth. I cannot sit still or fall asleep when I think of too many teeth. My friend Sammy used to taunt me by describing "fields of teeth" or "teeth growing out of arms". He didn't even have to try, really. Something about it makes me want to vomit and cry at the same time. Mostly it makes me want to cry. I can't handle it.
2. I like the smell of dog's breath. I find it comforting. There. I said it in public.
1. SUB ANSWER: I HATE honeycombs. Hate is an understatement. As Liam would describe: "Her reaction to the honeycomb honey in a box that i had bought brought about the idea of torture for the first time in my mind. Dangling the container that contained the honeycomb in it over Carlee's bed as she awoke was the most exciting thing in the world for me." I can't even get into how terrified that made me feel.
3. No one. And I mean NO ONE is allowed to wear socks in bed. Nope. No one. ESPECIALLY if there is sex involved. I won't do it. I will not climb into that bed with you.
4. When I was a little kid I used to have very strong feelings for inatimate objects. Like I used to save the wrappers for things because I thought they had feelings too. I would put them in secret places with my jewelry, and my most prized stuffed animals. I would take them out and pay attention to them like I would my real belongings. I would save them for years.
5. Sometimes I get drunk and, once I'm alone, I sexy dance. Uninhibitedly sexy dance. By myself. Though, come to think of it, that's more embarassing than weird.
6. Occasionally I pluck my leg hairs. For hours. It is unendlessly satisfying.
DVD Extra: I love porn. I love men who can sew. I hate anise flavored things (I think the jury is pretty 50/50 on this in general, but still). I have the entire Sarah McLaughan album "Surfacing" memorized. I tell jokes to myself out loud when I'm alone. Again, more embarassing than weird.
On that note, goodnight, America. I tag Julie-Lou. and Eric, whether or not this still exists., and kitten4evaeva a.k.a. KAT. because they are the only other blogs I know.
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