what honestly crossed my mind last weekend

While I don't know the rationale of the claim that 70% of an average person's body heat is lost via the noggin, if we go with that then it's safe to assume some of us with what some may deem a disproportionately large head lose more heat at this area of the body.

Self-question:
If I just super-bundle my head and neck, do I even really need to wear a winter coat? I mean, within reason, could it be?

Self-answer:
No. And with these crummy, weak, scarred lungs of mine the theory mustn't come close to being tested.

[Scene: Brady Bunch opening screen with the nine squares. In place of Mr. Brady - my brain. In place of Alice, my lungs, right there in the middle waving and smiling, messing everything up. My Brain is not Mr. Brady, however, and first growls then roars and throws itself lobe-long at Lungs. Lungs stare into the gaping maw between Brain's hemispheres and shrieks. Brain finds those little black lines dividing them to be more an issue than one might expect, gathers self together, determined to maintain its dignity.]

cha-i-rity

I was telling Polsky how LZP is currently dating the worst-named-to-date-LZP person imaginable. The formula for this, you ask? Ah, it is quite simple:
sibling's first name = date's first name
+
date's last name rhymes with female subject's first name

She cannot take his last name, and he cannot take hers because then he'd...have her brother's name.

Also, he has a beard, but has been alerted that its removal is vital.

To this Polsky shared that her visiting friend from L.A. showed up last week with a two-foot long beard.
[her face: shameful admittal/visual lust of reaction.
my face: disgust.
her face: acknowledgment of shared mental anguish]
His excuse is that it's for charity.

But can there be, even in the further reaches of the intellectual universe that is L.A., a charity for people to donate to those with less fortunate chins?

eyrror

That is when my eye makes an error, and is not the retarded cousin of the donkey in Winnie the Pooh. (There's still no excuse for naming him Pooh, though. Regardless of slangination, 'pooh' sounds icky.)

Anypooh, I was poking about in the blogger utility navigations and thought it somehow read 'Dashbort' where Dashboard appears. Dashbort could only be a hurried abortion. That is not what I was looking for.

And probably is not the sort to have, especially in place of looking at your blog(s). "Darnit. I meant to create a new post...Rather impressive functionality, howevah."

a date with breastiny

My f'ing gawd - they're even bigger today.

How do people stand this?

hermones

My boobs hurt.

They won't stop.

I do not feel like my boyfriend's friend who declared last weekend at dinner that his four-year old son is his nemesis, mostly because I do not feel my breasts are bound to grow into better versions of myself.

Hello, old friends, rooted mightily to my rib-region. I miss what we used to have - the quiet walks in the park, bounding painlessly down steps, snuggling up on a cold night just keeping each other warm. Remember? I don't want you to do anything you're uncomfortable with. Let's just do what feels good, and comes naturally, to both of us.

Reduce yourselves! Stand down! It can be like it used to be for us.

It can.

some say award-worthy, some say lawsuit

This is the dumbest, most clearly male-invented shoe in the Western world.
I'm sure it is tempting on a daily basis to point out to people what a simple little bunch of sheep we most often, despite our supposed desire for 'individuality,' are. But, Marc Jacobs, must you push it quite so far?

another fantastical power shot to hizzel

If voodoo could work, wouldn't we use it for pleasure at least as much as pain?

Safe sex and masturbation could go to new levels.

pre-speak

Last night, I used the phrase "mice hex" in conversation. A moment later it hit me what that sounded like.

nothing needs be said

miss south

She wowed them in South Carolina, mastering advanced classes like:
Religion
Highlighting (markers)
Highlighting (hair)
Prepositional Magic
Creative Cartography



And inspired a nation.

Osama us bin making better uses of our time than others.

sweet, nourishing michael ian black

(Foreword: I am still mourning the loss of the Stella Show, and eager to once more relive the magic that was the Migrant Worker episode.)

We were so close last night, Michael Ian, though I have created situations that visually made you appear closer. But that was long ago. We needn't dwell.

Your head? So big! It's really so, so big. [Sigh.]

And LZP will likely continue to attempt brainwashing me into believing you did look right at me when waving goodbye at your Exeunt Stage Right. So I will continue telling her your eyes said, "Sure, my son is a disappointment - but I want to have my less disappointing child with you."

Our baby? Not as good as the pending Darlana (coming: next future!), but still a better knock-knock joke writer.

genius beggar

This is one way to get people to give you clothing.

sure-fire ways into wikipedia

1) the spaghetti dance
2) invention of "koi dressage" - which will most importantly consist of the fish head sticking out from the water, and carrying out the blowing of a kiss with fantastical coordination of a fin and fish lips. This can be performed singly or in battle formation.

i'm sorry. my id seems to be on your ego.

It wasn't me. Sometimes the id just has these more muscled-imp moments.

[Trapped listening to a conversation so tedious it was painful to drudge up memories of its competitors...]
dude: "You look like you're thinking about something."
me: "I do that." (Congratulate self for not blurting out cheap and obvious, 'Unfamiliar expression for you, isn't it?')
dude: "So, what're you thinking about?"
id: That question requires punishment for multiple reasons.
me: "I was debating internally if the mere challenge of determining anything equal in sheer dullness to this entire interaction was, beautifully, actually making it intriguing. Or not."
dude: "I don't get it."

See. So I don't even have to feel badly.

Because that was straight, cold-ass bitch.

the photos, they speaksies

Just living a full life, along with all y'all.

dear future dependents

I just wanted to let my potential eventual berbies know that at one time their mother had to handle such serious issues as this, from my co-worker:

Hi Everyone,

If you have my voice changing megaphone please return it to me…no questions asked. The future of this company depends upon it.

Best,

Keith

So, berbies, I guess you should totally expect me to be able to handle all else quite adeptly.

self-filter: off

Danger.

Danger will rogers you blind.

So as I was texting and waiting to cross the street last evening, I apparently had offended Mr. Thuglife Extraordinaire by standing precisely where he had hoped to walk into. Peripherally (avec mon giant peepers), I could see him standing directly in front of me, hoping to intimidate me into getting out of his precious way. Jarred unexpectedly from my engrossing text response, some Internal Dialogue slipped out.

"Oo, I'm so impressed with your little display of aggression." GLARE.

Grit teeth.

Okay, that's probably more than just the filter being off, but whatevs. Sometimes a person responds on an animal, instinctual level to an implied threat. Sometimes a person snarls. It's to be expected.

when least expected

So I'd been wanting to see Emi's commercial, to the extent that I'd even taking to watching t.v., but given that we don't have cable* and all of four channels, I'd fairly given up.

Then, the other night, I was actually eating something at home - making an actual dinner, in my own kitchen [gasp!] - and I heard, "Hey." Emi?

I turned just in time to see her on the tube, as in television, not the 'Mind the gap' variety. But we're still fairly fascinated that one little word was so distinctly identifiable.

*(because we "don't exist" according to the cable/internet company, and because when they realized we DO exist, they used this opportunity to fail repeatedly and suck up hours of my life and cell minutes, only to decide we - in fact - do not exist.)

finally - a thought i'm ashamed to have had

So in reading this article (alerted in AQ's blog), when I read this part:

Iraq accounted for the overwhelming number — with 27 of the suicides coming from that conflict and three from Afghanistan. Also, there were 948 attempted suicides, officials said, adding that they didn't have a comparison for previous years.

And thought, 'It's a wonder we aren't being decimated. These guys aren't even good at killing themselves.' Then, 'WOW, am I an aaa-haaaa-ass-HOLE.'

Not proud. But, what is the descriptor for this feeling?

poor choice in pre-proposition conversation

"c"/o a male cultural anthropologist

A: ...That's why men can't help how they are, not that they can't exercise self-discipline.

me: There's that.

A: It's just that by nature we, as males, are driven to spread our seed - to propagate the species - so must have many mates. Women, on the other hand, are after finding the strongest hunter/provider to reproduce with who then will also be able to protect her and their young.

me: Except, of course, that that's faulty logic because under that supposition each woman should also be looking for multiple mates so she could essentially develop a team of protectors. In theory, the female could also require all her mates to protect all her offspring equally well, using the safety of each male's offspring as leverage against the male, should he fail or attempt to decline.

A: That's an interesting point. [He looks away, moving his nearest shoulder away a good inch.]

me: Maybe that's just me.

A: Can I get you another drink?

me: [It won't help.]

celtic grotesque, almost

Baby, it's like...I can't tell where I end and you begin, or where I end, except that it really, well, it kind of hurts.

SOMEday...

I must have a brilliant baby. (Yuka, you still have dibs on any and all retarded berbies issued forth from this womb. Fret not.)

I needs me a smart 'un for to teach it to say things like this:

Scene 1, Ex-act 0:
A three-year old is learning to play catch. The adult is throwing balls gently, lobbing them with a soft arch. The toddler misses as the audience looks on, but then...

Toddler: Hey! I caught something! And this time it's not viral!

bacon strips displace brain in heat wave

1) The thought I'm most excited about for the entirety of the day is: Victorian squid wallpaper. (It's important to note that the squid be in an elaborately flourishing Victorian style, and not the remains or photos of squid from the Victorian Era. Thank you.)

2) My Creative Team and I are pretty sure that while dogs dream in b/w, and we dream in high-resolution CMY color, Paris Hilton's dreams occur not in b/w but the monochromatic hue of pink, and all actors within are drunken chihuahuas.

goodie sara brown

The Puritans' search engine of choice:

Goodle

myspace, it's like you really 'get' me

Why that IS how I'm feeling! Mood-less and then some!

You amaze me, even if outwardly that is not apparent.

But you know this.

You always know how to cut to the quick, scamp that you are.

Now wipe that smile off your face and sit here stoically with me, for hours - effortlessly, and emphatically expressionless.

"thriller" ending takes on newly dubious element

This is the world in which we live, but putting this in a time capsule would likely not convey to the only partially-informed future generations its full awesomeness.

fo' pope shizzle

This guy? Hilarious.

As is this photo. I swear this is how it appeared on msn.com, so any Fun With PhotoShopping was not my doing. There's something distinctly Blazing Saddles about this, though.

Wait. Is Mel Brooks the pope? (Can we just switch him in? It'll be so much better.)

The best part is that it's true that there's only one true church - it being the world. There's also only one god, because it doesn't matter what you call it. By definition, if there IS only one, everyone is praying to The Same.

The superAwesome part is the demonstration of what piddliness is at the heart of institutionalized (and I do mean that) religion.

flight + rap + acoustic guitar

Something we can get behind, if only because getting in front would require a lot of looking over our shoulders.

friday in july

Polsky has moved - partially against her will - to the Upper West Side.

Marie is still in France.

Still.

KR is being Ophelia off in the mountains of Colorado.

But at least we have talk of an Office Falcon, octopus-squid lovin' (a more romantic thought than mere evolution), astronauts needing some sugar, and this:

post-Sweden: some rarely blogged sincerity

Sweden appealed to all the quiet peace in me. Granted, 'the public' may not be aware but this part is just as strong as any other inside, and provides at least as much happiness as Entertainer D. So many things reminded me of my dear little Gramma Hilma, especially people's twinkles. And there's water and things to explore everywhere; better yet, much of the exploration is near or via water. We found shire-likes, moss everywhere, and a kind of tree we're calling a willow birch (note: and watch out, willow birches, because you are ear-marked as my ideal tree to give birth against, Viking style...though I don't think anyone thinks I'm serious, give me half a chance to slip off and do it old school, and I'm out). Even the rocks are smooth and rounded in their craggliness, kind of like giant old people faces peeking out of the ground to go snuggle into while they tell you how there's really nothing to ever worry about, it'll all be okay.

So for ten days I lived with music being made around me one way or another, light in the sky that moved from a gray petulant enough to make pink sexy to a golden layer gently laying over the horizon in hours typically black, and a fairly perpetual reassurance from the water, though I don't know what it'd say..."I'm right here, you will not dehydrate, and if need be, just jump in me. I'll take you...away." Maybe not. But it's soothing anyway, feeling it close by. And until you've been dancing with the swirling fallen leaves (not that I have since I was little either), don't knock my dippy love of this stuff. M'kay?

Walking in the woods drummed out my favorite little verse from when I was 15, by Lord Byron (slightly edited):

"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
Rapture on the lonely shore,
Society, where none intrudes;
By the deep Sea, and Music in its roar,
I love not man the less, but Nature more.

(That's where I tend to stop, but it continues, so in the interest of moderate accuracy...)

From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal."

But what's to conceal? Strip down, man! (Because you're not fooling anyone. We've been totally onto you for some time now.)

It was extra perfect also that on our accidentally-themed day of death, following the Bronze Age Burial and visiting general graves and one specifically, as we walked through mist along the road to a rune stone, the little flowers Gramma would eat with us on walks sprouted up in our path. So we nibbled on a few of them, realized we couldn't make out the characters on the stone, and rather than think it was one of the duller inscriptions, J made up something dazzlingly gory. This, all, I loved.

For these reasons and more, it was not easy to leave. (Although I'm fairly sure my feelings would be different were it winter.)

mine are a proud and notably large-headed people

Yesterday before lunch I was so tired I was shaking a little, but per usual, some of us in our office feel the summer must be enjoyed. In a sort of beached whale version of a flash, I motioned for a Nap in The Park. Yay! Nap! Sleepy time!

We kerthunked ourselves down in the grass. As exhaustion had turtled my judgement, I'd overlooked that I was there with MB which = we will be perpetually talking. I think he'd just finished telling me the title of my autobiography should be Terrifying and Kind of Attractive: the DM story. Better would be if HE writes these stories, as his perspective on The Terror would be entertaining, at least in a sadistic sense. But I digress...

MB'd said earlier how he likes bald babies, and thinks they should stay that way much longer - like until they're eight at least. The catalyst of this thought train was this wobbly baby, a little over a year old. It's head was bald, and impressively sized. Later, MB starts talking in this high-pitched friendly voice. What!? Friendly? So I look up and over. The target was spotted, and it had its mother along.

MB: "Hey there. Come say hi?"
Giant-headed Baby: [Tip of tongue protrudes; stares blankly.] (This kid has a great future as a poker player.)
MB: "Although I can understand, Mom's pretty good too, probably."
GhB: [Lets go of mother's knees and reaches out, trying to take a step towards us but is being foiled again by that clever grass stuff; resumes wobbling, worriedly reaches for mother's knees.*]
GhB's MOTHER: "You look more like her parents than I do."
my ovum: Reinforce the walls! We will not be overtaken! Go not lightly into that dark night!
MB: "Ya, especially this one. [Gestures at me. Then whispers over at me,...] 'I mean, look at the size of that head.'"
GhB's Mother: "Are you Swedish?"
me: "Why, yes I am."
GhB's Mothers: "Her father is Swedish. His head is huge, too. He looks like you. [Pause.] I'm Portuguese."
me: "Ooo, what a cool mix."
MB: "That is awesome that your people are renowned for huge heads."
me: "Ya. And some other stuff." [Norseman death squint.]

*We should make knee puppets for moms to wear. Sure, it sounds cray-cray but studies will back me up. As will lonely knees.

powerful deli man

We were on our way to see Paprika and I went into some deli to get a juice (V8, long may it live). The guy behind the counter says, "You are a princess, the most beautiful princess."

"Thanks."

"No, no, miss. You really are. You ARE a very, very beautiful princess."

Apparently he has that kind of authority. So, hey, yay for me. I didn't have to buy it or marry for it. I am titled. Va-voom. My principality probably includes the Angelika Theater, and expands to I know not where. Next week I'll go back for a root beer and find out.

vague insult of chickens

We're ordering breakfast. My bud wanted eggs. I offered him mine, like my ovum.

S: "Do you think you could make an omelet with them?"
me: "I hope so. If chickens can..."
S: "I wonder. But I think I'm going to puke."

compliment?

I never know quite how to take this one:

"You look so amazing ON FILM."

week's highlights

1) Last Friday, Anne did what Anne does and was wanting to slap my posterior. I saw the look in her eye! So, I wiggled it in her face and told her to go ahead (yes, we'd been drinking and dancing). She swats me and instantly looks up and says, "How's Lauren been?"

Ass-ociation.

2) The other day, I was telling Anne how bad my next day was going to be...to the extent I was programming in a reminder to myself to eat at lunch. "What else could I forget that's vital?"
"Brush teeth. Bathe."
"Sleep."
"Remove tampon."
"No, I'm keeping that."

3) The coffee and tea companies are getting serious about their copy. The San Lorenzo Dark roast is "bold, dark, exquisite." Gimme summa that! And then there's the Lemon Blueberry PASSION tea. Hey, I have lemon blueberry passion! It's like we were meant to BE.

crying from desire

This has never happened to me before, though I've sort of wanted it to. It's true, too; my eyes are watering from Want.

But it's a worthy cause. Meet the cocoa bar. Specifically, it was this that did it to me - : rasberry truffle cake :. As if that's not enough to liquify my brains and have them run down...well, nothing sounds good here and I do not want to ruin my appetite, but the point is that the new one is right by my darling LZP's.

Okay, the thought of doing our margaritas-to-go and eating some of these chocolates and then some blood orange and grapefruit gelati with Pelle in the dogpark just made me get misty with anticipatory joy. Oh sunshine, we've missed ye.

iscream, lover

I've never been able to talk dirty to a lover, but judging by the filth that was just coming out of my mouth as I sat un-observed talking to my ice cream, I think I know what I need to imagine if I want to possibly pull off Le Dirty Parle.

the ghost of william's testicle

I admire the aplomb with which my dear friend (with the help of his many and wonderful friends who are not me) handled his diagnosis of testicular cancer and resulting surgery. It's not surprising, but typical. Still - appreci-a-ti-on.

Apparently this was bothering me more than I was aware, however, and made itself be known in dreamland last night - and, fittingly, in a most appropriately annoying way.

IN THE DREAM, Balls (long ago referred to as TMS, in keeping with blogging naming constraints) was there. I call Balls Balls because he would say it as an exclamation, and he climbs crazy high things and is generally balls-out. Of course, initially it was to try to get him to stop exclaiming, "Balls!" but we know how those things play out. One of the last times I saw Balls, I believe between trips to the Himalayas and to partake of the TransSiberian Railroad, he was all chatty about wanting to have kids. As I recall, I had spontaneous and temporary Parkinson's develop, being unable to stop shaking my head 'no' as he talked. ("Hello sweet baby. I know it's my fault who your dad is. Or was. Since he died trying to backflip off Everest. And Aunt Emi and Aunt Anne totally have alibis. Wink wink. Urm, sorry, though. I goofed. You got me.") Also, he always had at least 1/8" of facial hair. Why? Why?! And usually at least 1/4". Outside of the Arctic Circle, no one should have facial hair - or certainly not on a regular basis.


Anyhairroot, Balls has shaved (so many layers of meaning - totally), and is attempting to make himself appealing as a mate. As he keeps talking, I start making a case for how serious reproductive stuff is, and tell him about how William had this particular cancer, and his funny photos, and how so many people began judging his sperm and leaving comments as to their appearance/destiny. Balls is un-phased, and counters. He has had this testicular cancer so had his manstuff frozen. All I have to do is agree and he can have me knocked up with more surety than an average male. (This would appeal to him, so the thought will never be shared. With him. Who doesn't know diddly about this blog.) More insidiousness ensued, but unlike so many other things I'd gladly forget, this bit my brain has mercifully blocked from memory.

hey hey hey, it's may day

Remember how nice it was when you were little and you'd wake up on May Day and be all, "Weeeee! Where are my lace doilies?! [Then, more manically...] I must make May Day baskets for all our old neighbors and leave them on their front doors, and it will be a total surprise and make them so happy and and andAND AND..." [spinning girlishly, giggling and being in love with the sky and sun] "I have to start picking flowers THIS INSTANT."

Then the careful selection of which blossoms had reached their prime and it was justifiable to sacrifice, keeping them watered as the bouquets were prepared, and then matching them up in what were essentially floral death ceremonies. (Oh, stop. I know, I know - such the Romantic. Sweet youth!)

Finally, walking them discreetly down the block, a smaller crop each year, as I realized how few of our neighbors I actually considered worthy. Halloween? Carefully noted. "You-a give me a leetle sumthin' sweet, and I'll-a give-a you a leetle bit a dees [flowers]..." Then, in the end, the disappointment that the purity of the sentiment was getting colored, and probably at least ten to thirty minutes of self-criticism before resolving to Put Things Right and put some bouquets even onto the doors of total strangers.

To regret later.

Yay! May Day!

good at being pretty and that's all they see

That's our house.

I love it that I just found this note on my bedroom floor (sounding so much spicier than it is), have absolutely zero idea of where it came from, and after reading, "You are so beautiful that I want to kiss you," my first thought was, 'I wonder if this is mine or if it was for KR or JS.' There's no telling. It could've gotten swept in under the door. The paper? Somewhat familiar looking. The handwriting? Girly. The wording? Unspecific.

Go to it, supersleuths. Nancy Drew, we need you!

theeee perfume

Since everyone keeps asking...NO, I do not naturally smell like this. This is what it smells like when you crush up fairy bells, all your childhood dreams of bettering the world, and mix with Mother Nature's embryonic fluid. I only have old, very worn Swedish sleigh bells, shattered dreams, and Momma N keeps slapping my hands away when I make a move for her fluids. (Okay, eew.)(But maybe if the bells had been shattered, rather than the dreams...closer. I always get those confused.)

Un Jardin sur le Nil...is good. I'll wear it all my life. I'd bathe in it if I could - snort it, drink it, you name it. Spray it and it'll be just like I'm there with you, but invisible...so, urm, a bit more like I'm waiting in the darkness of your home, waiting to strike. Any. Minute.

NOW.

kr's take on her excellent match

K: "Ya, so he is a twin. Identical. And they used to have a hip hop band or whatever they're called...when it's hip hop."
me: "Nice."
K: "And he beat boxes."
me: "Like Run DMC, making noises with his mouth?"
K: "He says his art is [hysterical laughter][deep breath, continuing hysterical laughter] really enhanced by a mic."
A: "I love how you can't even talk about it with a straight face."
K: "He makes his living teaching physics and chemistry privately, at $100 an hour. This is actually pretty cool. And he's teaching me stuff - right now, it's about vectors. Really interesting, as you might expect."
A: "He sounds pretty great to me." She's sincere, and knowing this makes me laugh, steadily, with satisfaction.
K: "Ya, and - the best part - he hates Shakespeare. He's perfect for me!" [Laughing hard, tears in eyes, unsure of kind of tears.]
A: "But seriously, doing all that and teaching those things, that makes an interesting package."
K: "I mean, come on, of course. I'm dating this drug-abusing private physicist hip harp artist."'
[Uncontainable, delirious laughter. Imagining hip hop with harps, little ones on hips. K and I are crying, picturing this. We try explaining the mental image to A, but unsuccessfully. Like now.]
me: "Ít's like, 'Ya'll ready fo' dis? Hit it! Wheeky wheeky wee...[thrust left hip, impassioned yet tight and small plucking motions] bliiiiiinky bliiink doodiliydoo." Fairly blank stare. "No? Oh, well."
A: "So he's a hip harpist."
[K again has laughing fit, explaining the new term extra-tickled. We are all happy we are friends.]

And that's when we left to walk around and shop while drinking wine then sucking on Blow Pops. This was far more fun than is reasonable.

self-indulgent alienation, part deux

Welcome to the total douchebag conversation we were forced to endure in McCarren Park on Sunday - except this may make you laugh.

light time is the right time, for some things

Perfect sunny spring conditions = me and everyone else abdicating our Responsibility Thrones (at least at lunch) and heading outside to bask. I think the men folk need another week or so to adjust, though.

1) A crosswalk signal said stop. Fine with standing in the sun and not being splattered, I waited. Horns started honking because the person in front wasn't moving despite the greenlight. Even before the horns, that was noticeable because - hi - we'd all stopped just so he could go, and it's a major peeve of mine when people do that because as the first person in the line, you owe it to everyone behind you to pay attention and get a move on. But he finally goes. Then the guy behind him, annoyed apparently to the point of hypocrisy being a sound solution, stops TO YELL AT ME. Thanks, guy. "He sat here through half the __ light because he was too busy staring at YOU!" I learned from this that even a simple usher arm-motion can say so much and be fairly satisfying, and it was not punctuated with any special finger flourishes as D had her Zen on.
2) Sitting out with everyone else should've been nice, but then some freak business dude twice was trying to peek over my shoulder at my phone as I was messaging. DUDE. Okay, so walk over to steps and sit. Fall in love with sun. Put purse under legs and wrap straps around wrist, close eyes. Long to be on beach. Open eyes. There's significantly less open space around, which would've been okay except that when I moved my head then all the other heads looked to me and wanted to speak, and were all male. It was somewhere between feeling like birdseed in San Marco's Square (ahhh, pigeons!!!) and an awkward attempt at a 1950s "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend" scene, except all the dancers were straight, a few overweight, and they looked like those big-ish primitive fish with pasty eyes and fat lips as they gobbled the air, trying to make words come out. I know guys! What to say? What can one say to a perfect stranger you have no excuse in the world to be bothering as she's clearly just trying to enjoy a little quiet moment to herself in the small slice of nature available? We'll just pretend that they were aware of exactly that and were trying to make me feel more at home, like I was out at the pond feeding fish or ducks or something. Aw, duck feeding. Ka-yoot-ness.

rat solution

And not a Final Solution, either, for rats are shmaht and can be kind of cute.*

Why not just train the rats to serve the food? Talk about profit margin. And who'd champion Rat Rights? Plus, they'd be cute in bitty rat gloves and fur-nets, and maintain probably about the same amount of rat hairs in our food anyway.

*In fact, a rat has hacked into D's site and is typing this.

KR's play

Cloud 9 is just an awesome play, anyway, but then you add in serious talent and boyohboy. So much is the pride in our KR. After a fabulous evening with some of our most dazzling and dear companions, we were trying to grab a cab. Given the pleasant temp, the Saturday night wait wasn't phasing us but K put her hand up and just kept it up, saying, "Something will come, eventually." We keep talking, and then this passenger says as they drive by - in full Borat voice - "Hi-a five!"

People are so lovable sometimes.

summary

I have/had so much to say, but find it all summed up in, "Haaachachacha."

Details forthcoming.

(No, they're totally not. You have to come play!)

spring?

Is that you? Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. We've just all missed you so, so much. Are you really here?

And it's going to be a beautiful weekend. The word 'beach' has been uttered. There is sun. (I've seen it and can confirm. Secondary visual verified the sighting.) I had fresh o.j. already this morning, and am going in a few for an excellent coffee and almond croissant at my Frenchy place. Now to just not die of loveliness.

little glimpses of love

There was this couple on the beach, one that normally would be dismissed as "attractive but older guy who ditched his wife and probably left his kids for 'greener pastures'" but they seemed to be having such an interactive discussion, and they'd look out on the water with the same far-away contendedness and their heads moved in a dance in every moment.

The next time I looked over at them, he was laying on his tummer, and she was up sitting on him, rubbing his back. Her face was all crinkled up, but not in annoyance; she was concertedly feeling the knots in his muscles. This level of concentration and expression of concern that he clearly couldn't possibly be aware of was so genuine and sweet, it was hard* to not go sing them a love song or a lullaby.

* - but quite feasible to refrain as while the sentiment was well-wishing, the action - nella mia voce - would be cruel and I did not want to hurt zem.

a favorite daydream catalyst

When and where would you go back to in time (say, for a week)?

'head'-line isn't the right word for this

...but I saw on AQ's link to this andra blog a headline that reads:
Advocacy Group Plans Friendlier Cavity Searches

"Hey! First round's on me!"

Imagine their meetings. First, what to advocate?

Equal rights?
Not really doing it for us.
Inequal rights?
Done to death.
Rumplestiltskin?
Hard one.
Then I know - cavity searches!
All those opposed...
[Silence]

A few weeks in:

I still think we're on the right path here, but I don't know, sometimes I feel kind of badly.
Like you're violating something?
Ya. But not in a fun way.
Ya.
Look, I'm not stopping. I don't care what you guys do.
Maybe if we just made it nicer...
[Dubious glance.] How so?
Less abrasive, classical music in the background, gentler...
I am NOT being gentler!
Okay, man, okay. Geez. How about some lube then? The rest of you - totally free to be gentler.
I guess I can lube them - after!
No, come on now, before. BEFORE. Promise us, you scamp.
Fine.
Say it.
I promise to lube them, beforehand. [Laughing fit ensues. Wiping tears from eyes, he explains.] Ohgawd, for word choice. Get it? Before hand? Oh lord. Dear, sweet Jesus milk. Oh, my stomach; it hurts. It hurts so much.

(I'd link it but the article it refers to has been removed anyway.)

ferrell child

I had to remove this posting of Will Ferrell's baby playing the part of his landlord, because it starts playing every single time the page is viewed which makes me want to slit my own throat.

blessed tax weekend

Myske, what WAS it we wanted to PhotoShop? What was that ripe fodder, I think primarily from the last bar? All that's coming to mind is talk of the new Tudor series and thinking about Henry figuratively getting fat off the flesh of his slain wives. But that's not it, as hilarious as that is. (No.)

And otherwise, here's to the best weekend I've had in ages upon ages. And sleeping only three hours Saturday night but it not even phasing me yesterday (vot?!), and having such a splendid time that even this perpetual gray raininess and taxes isn't denting the general yay-ness.

A cheers now, to tango on Thursday!

drink no

New vodka brand: No.

"What're you having there?"
"Uh, No."

"Can I have some..."
"Of my No?"

Cocktails mixed of No:
Nothing
Resolve
Standards

Also good when discussions are paired with this approach.

can't i just be a witchdoctor?

Please? I was one in my dream last night, and it was really cool - to be eloquent. I don't know that I had any obvious powers, but it felt like I knew extra stuff. And by golly, I like knowing extra stuff! I could look out from the rooftop, and 'just know' the balance of worth and potential in all the people in each gaze in whatever direction. Then it was just a matter of picking who'd actually do anything with their opportunities, once their paths were cleared a bit or issues resolved with a moment of realization. Regretfully, there's no memory of the actual details but it was pretty much pure delight to see the first bit then be struck with its solution and just think 'yes' and know it would unfold for them. It's not wrong to want to be able to do that, is it? [My non-smote, totally not cleaved-in-two existence indicates it's fine. So far.]

Plus, my hair was perpetually awesome, doing sort of interpretive renditions of my mood and thoughts. There were also jangling things, and shiny bones, pulled teeth with their elegant roots intact, and mutable tattoos. All this, without having to live in the woods with the bugs.

magic of our pearls

We did the only natural thing as JS, Emi, and I engaged in our seasonal bout of exercise (this time: pilates) and pronounced the special skills of our individual Blackberry Pearls.

JS's can perform abortions.

Then everyone stood in a triangular formation like aliens, looking back and forth at one another, smacking gum in what would be nice to imagine could be mistaken for alien-speak.

happy fertility rites day

O, Eggs! Oeufs! Uova! Eier! Eieren! Яичка! (as near as I know, phonetically: yah-eech-kah)

Ovum by any other name...are still so cool. It's Easter, it's your day. Let us rub your eggy feet, massage your nucletic temples. So while, as every day, so many eggs die, also today many eggs dye. (Preference is entirely circumstantial but it's still a dear gesture.)(Also: correctly, the eggs are dyed, and do not perform the dyeing - but I like to think of some role reversals possibly happening out there, somewhere.)

From the Eggacle:
We shall find the universe is elliptical, like you, Great Egg Spirit. Your shape is this. "Eternity is elliptical; there is no end to the holding."

Here's the Alpha. The Omegga is all you. [What just hap-pun'd? Ohgawd. It won't stop. Remember 'Leviathan' (or whatever that movie was down on a deep sea shelf...)? Like that. An invisible and diabolical soul-sucking force has taken ova...AHHH!]

And now, some dyed dead eggs from the homelands, with notes from a dear mistress of the earth:
"... my favorite were the blue & the orange. The blue was made from red cabbage, and the orange was from the skins of yellow onions. The yellow eggs were cooked in mustard and turmeric, and the pale green (they look white in the photo) were cooked in spinach. The purple eggs were simmered in 'red zinger' tea. We made the ones in the wooden bowl as hard-boiled eggs, cooking them in with the raw veggies, but the ones in the basket were an experiment... raw eggs soaked in the veggie solutions for a day or so in the refrigerator and then blown out. I did find out that duck eggs are much harder to blow out than chicken eggs..." [insert bawdy comments here]

dreamtheme conjures jackie o.

Friday night: dreamt about...my beloved-by-all old sunglasses, who only became 'former' through the twisted happenstance of extreme cold to heat and some cruel act of chance. (They met their end.) I tried to find replacements amongst their designhouse brethren, but the only that were even of interest were these










...and while the second pair is admirable, not as versatile as my lazyarse prefers. (Though, okay, they may be worth an attitude adjustment.)

Saturday night dream: am standing close to a slightly larger-than-life(-size) black/white photo of Jackie O. in peddle pushers, laying amongst books and papers, with a grand piano behind her. But then it's not a photo but movie. Then I'm there with her, and color subtlety washes into the room with us as we are laughing. The papers around us were old things we'd written, letters mostly (though mine were print outs of emails mostly, and on onion paper [favorite to type on as a child, with one of those typewriting machine things that used to exist]. We were writing letters, but then would read excerpts from our writings, old and new, to one another and comment and were having a wonderful time just feeding off each other's words, back and forth. She still sounded like herself, too, but it was Casual Jackie and a bit faster and words not bookended as much with space between one word's last letter to the next's first letter. She gave me an elastic (non-pulling) so I could pull my hair back off my face, and we talked about how much we love the boatneck line. There was a breeze from the windows but it was high enough that it never disturbed our papers, and mostly we cathappied in the sunlight, reading, and chatting, and drinking this wonderful Russian tea from the most precious yet un-emptying antique teacups.

And we were happy - quite happy.

But it was totally her love of big sunglasses, I'm sure, that called this dream into existence. The strange part actually was this AM, telling KR about the dreams, and she said, "Ohmygod. I dreamt about your sunglasses just the other night TOO."

easter bunny birthday

Arielski and I are marketing gods. GODS, I tell you.

"We have crap like Star Wars." - The Planetarium

(Happy Birthday! Don't let that fertile bunny take your thunder. The day is yours.)

come 'ere, office. roll over. gooood.

Yay! For today! (Though pre-booing Saturday's predicted 27F...sorry it won't be warm for thine visit, R.)

First, over lunch I popped into the interview with the dude who's been hounding for weeks. We sit and he launches immediately into Chinese medicine stuff, which leads to mini-Eastern discussion and he says, "I saw your resume and had to meet you. You seem as if you're a bit...esoteric." Sideglance, but smile then, "I suppose that's fair to say, yes." Then he goes into his former rockstar life but, "...I've become a musicologist, really." "Oh, fun. I took that as an elective and it was actually incredibly interesting." Dude has some of the weirdest rare music samplings...and nicely, I'm invited to hear. (Genuinely exceedingly excited.) Sure, don't vanna verk der but I love it when these strange little things happen and people of a certain ilk just seek out others, for he is one of My People. So rare are the kindred spirits, but this be one. Mark Two for such an occurrence, albeit this one is far less hot than the last. (Happy, Hoss?)

Second, I like this office. Item the First: a Creative Director turned after we were puzzling over this item and Senior Project Manager R was doing this pigpen of geometry to clarify, saying gleefully, "Thanks and go now! I release you, Geometry Gnome!" Guess what will be sticking? And he was complaining earlier that I called him simple 'pumpkin.' Oh, dally not, lest the full nicknaming be put upon thee.

Then another PM and I were IMing and since I never use my AOL one the old floating Addams Family-esque head is still on...possibly underlined by my general being...and he comes by later to present me with a Bride of Frankenstein plushdoll. Meanwhile, aforementioned SPMR brings by citrus-infused Belvedere vodkas for Sergio and I. HOW, HOW can I ever want to depart this place? Except...we know this ploy...trying to suck us in...keep us there forevski...so we lose track of days and hours and timesheets altogether.

Thank God for project tracking software! (Has our hero lost her mind? Will she ever be seen again on these sunny shores? Tune back next week...)

why males regret evolution

This is the main reason I've hesitated to get a little monkey. Gorillas probably can't pull this off (was that a bad verb choice?) but they're also a bit more dominant and we're all stocked up on Alpha Female here...which is really ample.



Still, first thanks still go to Beth for her detailed and horrific accounts when she was working at Chimp Haven.

det finns altid

So...so...many bizarre conversations. Because we need them.

In one spawned by Jav's guilt over possibly destroying a man's career yesterday, he recounted for the others one of my favorites. In some conference call, this dude was being an arseholio and they were butting heads a bit then the guy says, "Look, we can do this all day, and call each other names back and forth...," so J says, "Okay, you're a jerk. Your turn." Dude doesn't appreciate. Point proven - but missed. Womp.

Then, Crowley and I were bemoaning the ongoing issue with smoking still being allowed out here in Chicago. "Come on. The issue's that it affects others. Are these the same people who think pregnant women should drink? It's not like smoking is being made illegal."
"We aren't even restricting how much they smoke. Or who they subject to their smoke on their own property."
"Ya. 'It's okay. You can still lay in bed and smoke even.' But [light going off] maybe they should only be allowed to smoke in bed." And once we worked out a few kinks, came up with pretty good supporting arguments.

On another note - at once fulfilling and alarming - Ajmal has begun to exhibit nearly human-like behaviors. He clarifies they are illusions for the sake of profit, but the outcome is the same so I it's still progress for my little golem of a friend. (Ajmal has been the Pakistani Alex P. Keaton his whole life, as far as anyone knows.) At the same time, there are some political areas where we are in agreement. Neither of us knows how to process this.

Earlier yesterday, Jav wanted to finally get his Aztec tattoo, and we almost got a telescope, but then he didn't think there was time for the tattoo, and said he knows it disappoints me and he's sorry because he knows I want him to suffer. "No, not that so much. How about some acupuncture though?" No. "Need any vaccinations?" Nostril flare. "Can we say you were poisoned and need to be inoculated? Don't look at me like that. We won't really poison you." So he kept whining and telling everyone last night to check in on him every now and then, just in case. Today, however, he says, "Hey, D! Let's weigh your head!" "We'd have to cut if off, Jav." He smiles.

Meanwhile, there's a general consensus that it's abnormal-in-a-nice-way how much Augie-ites stay in touch and are good friends still. Ya, decapitation. Touching.

enviable

...my host is not.

Since arriving at my friend's, I have:

• run into a doorjamb last night, which somehow caused
• a frame to fall off the wall and break glass all over the floor, (but wait - that's not all!)
  
• when the frame fell it also hit a lightswitch and somehow cleanly broke off about 1/3 of it
• distinctly heard friend state preference for a taking of the coffee black but then watched self start slowly putting sugar into coffee while the bloated hamster on its wheel that is my brain processed it was not my coffee being so assaulted with sweetening agent
  
• thought I'd be nice and do a bunch of laundry but neglected to check pockets so now the shredded remains of a cab receipt and apparently a novella and a ton of matches are having a party all over the laundry

If I were a dog, they'd put me down.

other findings

Oops. Apparently attempts to mimic Gene Kelley tapdancing can result in accidentally striking doorframes which result in knocking down things framed behind glass and are heavyish which result in said framed things striking lightswitches which will break into thirds. But HEY! There's still this:

A BRIEF TRANSLATION IS:
You have a luscious face, and you have a celestial figure but your hair is a disaster.


How much more awesome can it get?

good gene

We're just sitting here, granted in a rather boozeeed-uup staten, och did the next natural thing - watched Gene Kelley, for he is grand. Excuse me (as I've been corrected); he is great.

Gene, vi love you. And, for the record, in My Perfect Neighborhood, you would live on our floor.

Enough said. Mwa.

andra dag

Morning: run into Anne on the way to work and we get to share our commute. Yay!

Lunch: I swwwwear I saw a Hessidic tranny. Kidding thee not.

Laterz: realize I've made one of the top ten worst footwear choices for the day of my life. (The tootsies - still burnin'.)(Unrelatedly - continue in the missing of Laurenpresence.)

Home: run into Zan on way home, who pretty much incessantly giggles at everything, but was probably pushing the merriment with my 'up from train/immediate removal of [beautiful] boots/sock-footed walk home' maneuver. But hey, guess Mazzy Star has a new CD coming out (which is painfully bad, so the heardtell goes).

Big finish! (no)

speaking of mermaids

I still want to have one day in my home - aside from the red-walled, exposed-beams ceiling dining room with floor seating despite a big, ominous china cabinet (all wood dark) - to have an underwater-seeming bathroom.

When I was eleven, we visited Mom's friend she was working with in Spokane when preggers with this fair fetus, who was living on a lake in Idaho nestled in/near the mountains and in a houseboat, no less. Getting up in the morning, walking onto the porch, and stepping off it into water deep without being creepily so was completely tickling. But it's how it looked while underwater here that inspires; looking up to the surface, the sunlight dazzled down in spotlights and the world was luminous emerald in varying shades.

This is how I'd paint the wall facing the mirror. The other walls I'd likely just do sort of a black pearl treatment to, with a bit of texture. In an ideal world, I could have a raku aki sink sculpted to seem like a giant abelone but (but but but) raku is too porous and no treatment can negate that issue. Le sigh, emphatique. I suppose the toilie would have to be black. Some of the really amazing glass tiles from Italy would clearly have to be incorporated. No pearls of any color are remotely practical, as fake ones will soon chip coatings or look cheap and real ones are far too delicate (they aren't even supposed to be in sunlight much - hello, Lanyardkindred). Metal fixtures need to be dark, and organic-ish methinks...wrought iron probably, not above toying with tridents somehow. Copper touches would also add interest, especially patina-ing over time. (The 'mermaid handmirror' I bought some years ago in Florence that's copper with blue and green agates is what pushes me over the edge to realize this thing.) It'd be bad-ass to have big piece of (pale green) jade carved and polished in the shape of coral but translucent glass in the same color is wiser. The central light overhead light would have to be very cool but wide...I'm thinking of some handmade porcelain shades I've seen with patterns that seem very fossilized-sealife, with a definite golden cast, and in a flattened circular shape but with ripples in it, like when you throw a pebble into still water. A goldleaf ceiling might be good as well. Ya. I think like that.

It could happen. I just don't know how to reconcile these with my possibly stronger leanings towards much more minimal decor, but if there IS a way then I. Shall. Find. Eet.

Crap, now it all seems like Decorating with Golem. Oh well. I likeseez heeem.

mood: transcendental

Things the appreciation of which seems to have not been merely a phase:

• ikebana
• dark chocolate (in a multitude of forms and combinations)
• vodka (hey, it's not laudanum or opium)
  
• Italy
• Southern Spain
• Moorish architecture
• good sushi
• this surely unhealthy but incredible cream of celery soup (not in soup form) with rice and tender chicken breast
• the humanities
• genetics
• archaeology & paleontology (my longest relationship outside of family, and Mimi)
• mermaids, their imagery when done well, and other bits of folklore
  
• the sea
• Vikings
• ducks
• willow trees
• Scandinavian and Japanese design
• Voltaire, Thomas Paine, etc. (Freethinkers)
• going fast
• climbing
• heights
• flying
• candlelight
• thunderstorms
• tornado-green skies
  
• these two paintings, and pre-Raphaelite paintings in general theory, at least to look upon (they're too lush to outgrow apparently)(although the one on the right, "Flaming June," is by self-proclaimed anti-PRB'er Leighton, fine, fine):
  

• this excerpt of a Lord Byron poem I had on my wall when I was fifteen:

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more...

(Then, cut off the rest, which is below.)

From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

screwy

I get it when 'screw' is applied to face-making, but why is 'screwing UP' making a mistake? Upwards screwing seems better than upwards nailing, for anything you'd want supported by something thusly fastened - unless this slang derived from the other slang for screwing as in the making of the sexytime, but if screwing UP is a mistake in that context, then it seems like some awfully unimaginative screwing.

my kingdom for

...a great pencil skirt, probably a bit high-waisted...

for to make of the wearing with as yet un-attained but prospected bell-sleeved and otherwise slender blouses.

They've re-emerged on the fashion scene yet are impossible to find in stores, in fitting formats (good fabrics, well-made, quality cut, preferably a few small yet refined details). It hurts.

resurrection request of one rené lalique

Sweet, sweet Art Nouveau overlord, how I love thee. This image is just a detail from a chalice in the collection of this fascinating Turkish chap.

Yet, how disappointing your grave. (In defense of Père Lachaise, they've had to remove Jim Morrison's bust from his grave due to all the vandalism/tribute, and his would hardly have been as tempting to thieve away, so I suppose it follows Reason. I just want a giant terrarium around Lalique's grave, where vines and greenery is ever-present, with peacocks and serpents and light. On second thought, though, given a choice I'd rather have it - to enjoy with friends, and run naked through. Guess I'm selfish, when it comes to dead people. And becoming a mini-groundskeeper, even for that, also isn't terribly appealing.)

His jewelry though! Dear, glistening, serpentine aesthetic. Dear, glorious talent. I mean, just to be able to think enough beyond our societal value-ments to put diamonds and copper together? To have the frosted crystal balls to do it? And to carry out so much with arduous attentions bordering on inhumanly sublime? I curtsy and tip my fan to thee. Parasols down!

Parasol, down.

researching louis viii cognac: productive

This sounds like it'd be worth trying, and sans choking hazards (like when they put gems into the glasses).

Pickpocket Cocktail

1 oz Chateau D’Yquem Sauternes (2001)
1 oz Giraud Grande Champange Cognac
4 oz Krug 'Grande Cuvee' Champagne Brut

apple, tree. tree, apple.

KR sings Broadway-style in the kitchen: "Chemical spill. It's a chemical spiiiill."
moi von der bedroom, opera chorus-style: "What kind of chemical has been spilled?"
KR: "Not a good kind." Then, more stoccato, "There are NO good kinds." [beat] "I'm cleaning up the chemical spill."

Via phone, The Mother describing her morning dream -
"...we were in this lounge-y bar with these special seats that had infrared sensor-type things, so the chair would glow in particular colors to indicate what kind of drink you wanted [yay for Mom's subconscious mind!]...then a bunch of us were walking but having A Time of it because we all had on very high heels, the kind I just would never wear...and got off this escalator and there was a grave there. Parsley was growing out of the grave and I knew that was Mom (laughing) somehow, so I reached down and touched the parsley a bit of course, but she didn't even grow parsley."

Note: a few years ago Mom thought I was weird for threatening that if she were to have herself cremated then I'd make tea and drink her. (I have a theory about cremation, energy, and decomposition.) She has since, of her own accord, decided against the cremation. (And we are a blissful, oblivious lot - completely un-Nordic and free of Stoicism or forethought/methodical planning.)

Eyes dried after having seen Babel at long last -
If the news were half so human I would watch it again, at least sometimes. That's some damned fine film-making.

duckman revisited

First item of the day: looked for Duckman's "Prick Song" version when he closes the fridge door and he says 'prick' slowly, enunciating so we see his teeth. Sooo funny. This isn't it.

o, dickie

About 1/4 in is when it starts picking up a bit.
IMPROV

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speci-al

Owls are weird, but this one looks like a snowball with wings, which could explain a bit about why their numbers are scarce.

It's too bad Calvin & Hobbs isn't still in print.
Or not.

Xenoglaux: may cause delirium due to cuteness, loss of memory of previously witnessed adorability, eye pecking out may cause blindness. If you are a mouse, see your doctor before approaching xenoglaux. Do not attempt head rotating mimicry at home. Consult your physician if its image seems to be seared into your retinas.

Meanwhile, on pretty much the exact opposite end of the spectrum, there's this giant squid which outweighs the former record-setter by 330 at a total of 990. It was caught off Antarctica...so I guess if anyone falls into those waters ever, there's more immediate 'bad aspects' to worry about anyway. That'll make a good fishing story, though, as does the fact that they may microwave it. But that's okay - it's for science! Pinky and the Brain style...

At the time it was caught, O’Shea said it would make calamari rings the size of tractor tires if cut up — but they would taste like ammonia.

blackbird pie

The next gourmet organics fad:

Red-winged blackbird couples thought to be devoted surprised scientists that had given vasectomies to the males for population control; the females kept laying eggs that hatched. Somewhere, there's a blackbird Holiday Inn with a discreet parking lot.

"Um could I have some of the Immaculate Conceptions, sunnyside up?"

early sex ed a bit lacking

First the Creation of Man (first version, not the slightly more plausible and less insulting version appearing afterwards) - total gut buster, at least to a seven year old. Then there's the ear impregnation thing.

"And God saw Mary and said she was good. And God looked onto Mary and said onto her, Mary, I shall skullfuck thee.

And God said she was good.

And Mary thought her ear popped."

Oh, Bible. You smite me.

completely not funny: a dream

Last night's dream starts off in the Royalton lobby but there's a fireplace. A guy who's supposed to be a combo of Wesley Snipes and his old martial arts instructor (who nicely reinforced my reasoning for almost never letting males know even the cross-streets of my building) was sitting with me and we were eating this pate with olives somehow inside these nummy loaves, Gruyere fondue, and huge smoked salmon-wrapped, marinated artichokes with capers and a hint of lemon (hands down, my fav). All seemed well enough.

Then it was like a spy movie though, think Bridget Fonda's first assassination scene in Point of No Return. Dude leads me down this veneered Art Deco hallway to a room that's nice and toasty, thinking I don't know anything's up. I'm bummed because it's v. inviting in the room and there's another fireplace and candles and white flowers and a white fur rug that I'm pretty sure was supposed to be baby seal, but that wouldn't surprise me because the bed was carved ivory. (These served as further warnings of Wrongness.) I slip out remarkably easily, but wind up with a bunch of the Gigi's (Gorge-us Gouging, our female art group) in this massive tri-level pool area that's cavernous and dark but calming with lots of glass tiles and natural stones. At first the biggest and lowest pool is empty but it fills and all's well, swim, swim. Happy, nice. We decide to sauna but I am taken back, alone, to the lobby, knowing my friends will be worried.

Dude takes down an exit sign I hadn't noticed before as we enter the same hallway, opens a door I don't remember by using the sign to clumsily jimmy door, puts the sign over this door instead and leads me back to the room. I make a mental note, in case. He leaves, and my brother shows up, though he's about 13 and when we walk out then I am maybe 17 and we're in a park back home, heading to the waterfalls. He goes to his friend's car to get something but there's a dead guy inside and we're like, "Come on. We just want to be left alone and live our lives, cosmos. And do kid stuff." But someone's coming and this bag is stuck to my brother that turns out to have a severed human head inside. We spend the rest of the dream almost getting to dispose of the head but then someone almost catching us each time, and I keep saying not to panic, just stay calm. Lesson: heads - always a problem. (Also, this is likely tied directly to talk a few hours before sleep of how I should be afraid to give birth because there's a better than average chance the size of the fetal cranium will be formidable.)

qt con william

...and the 'con' was chosen quite specifically over other language 'with' words.

First, we establish incontrovertibly for ourselves that at least during our own lives, in tragic fact, time machines are never developed - or, if they are, we clearly do not have access to them. (If they are developed and we simply cannot access them, this indisputably proves the utter lack of justice in the universe. Nothing surprising.)

W: Your assignment for tomorrow is to blow stuff up.
me: Depends.
W: Plain, original flavor Mentos with diet Coke. It has to be diet and original flavor...the interaction in the phosphorus coating is what does it.
me: Got it. Oooo...the roof. Yaaaa.
[variations on the theme, detailing dangers and expectations - guess who's more concerned with safety/results]

Three drinks later...
me: Ya, guys DO suck. We probably do though, too.
W: But I said, 'Look at that shark.'
me: Oh. I'm sure that happens a lot.
W: I wonder how many times someone hears 'Look at that shark' when somebody said 'Guys suck.'

At least I think he's finally forgiven me for being sick on his birthday. (Still sorry, bub.)

shmoopytime: foreboding incarnate

It's done. Chickiechickie-Chicago, end of month. DONs, and DON-ishes, prepare thineselves. Throwdown time, word style.

Then.

There.

1975 'game'

Grapestompers unite. (Some of my guy friends back home call me this, claiming that I crush men thusly...which isn't very nice. Boo, boys, booooo. I blame it more on having crushed THEM than men as a whole. Booyakasha.)

cheek-squishing needs

It's sort of springy today. I want to cavort and dance in the streets in a sundress, to see bitty little bunnies and lay still enough in the grass that they - in all their foolish new-life-ness - will hop closer than would be wise had I any mal-intent, and to plink fresh petals between my toes.

Also, I've come to terms with the inavailability of Imhotep's DNA. It's a big step for me. Sure, I still want it but concede defeat on this matter. This general path can wait a bit anyway. However, MEANWHILE, the G-rated kind of fleshly craving returns...

Seeking: some serious baby cheeks. I need to squish. Need. And probably nose-nuzzle a belly or two, if possible. Gleeful-abandon giggles: also very welcome. Today I desire going a step beyond Facial Contortionism for Stranger Babies...but I can never bring myself to be that disrespectful of people's space. My germs are unknown, and it's their eeto baby. Oh, cruel logical empathy.

waaaaaargh!

The final Pirates of the Caribbean opens May 25th! Sweet, sweet, nourishing screeeeeen. Thank you.

(Also, does Orlando Bloom do everything in threes?)

bless yer multi-tasking, electrical self

My hairdryer is mighty! [Roar!] No hair can hold water before its force. No static can counter. It can dry entire shirts from a medium dampness in five minutes, and cause great billowing of fabric. Ionic? Yes. Doric? Nay, Corinthian. It is beyond Alpha and Omega, fierce, and having no beginning and no end...though, okay, so outlets do help.

bluh trauma

Sometimes I worry that I unwittingly permanently changed some nasal stronghold area when I was two and shoved the cucumber shavings up my nose so far we had to go to the doctor to remove them. (It was hot and they felt refreshing. What?) I say this because it's itching inside my head. Again. And what if I don't have allergies but a freak colony of parasites first drawn to the site ("Come, homestead in my head. It's dark and moist and full of wonders!") by decaying cucumber seeds. What if my nasal cavity is their space station? This would explain a lot, particularly the magnetic pull and lack of gravity inside my mouth. (It's okay. I make up for it with the gravity of what comes out of it: "Smile while you can. Later you'll find out the reason it rains really does have something to do with you. And how." "Most of humanity was probably conceived in selfish fucks." "Remember Ozymandias?") And the small orbiting stones.

run-on-ightmare

Take conversations about baking, ghosts, mounting excitement to see an infamously horrible movie (The Room), Germans, summer group vacations, design store Future Perfect, and combine with martinis, shake, then sleep...and you get a dream about a looming Victorian mansion covered in pressed tin with some goldleafing that's haunted but not until the third floor where The Unsanes used to be kept in a room that remains immaculately clean and done in the colors of a summer sky or Matthew Barney blimp insides which people keep going into, turning very white and wearing thick white face powder, and deciding to eat what they think is flour but getting thirsty and drinking water from an antique white porcelain wash basin which then mixes with what was actually an industrial adhesive and this comes gurgling up out of them doughily as they writhe in confused suffocation on the painted white wooden floors. The indifferently constant billowing of the curtains seems menacing. The ghosts can't figure out how or why this keeps happening either, but none is by their design and the conclusion is that there's yet another dimension of which all of us are unaware and that pretty much is more than we can really comprehend so we resign the room to itself and walk out then go stand in the front yard again and look up at the window though we know nothing out of the ordinary will happen and it doesn't.

beyond my control

I've decided I'd like a Smurf more than a monkey.
1) They're Socialist and
2) they're housebroken.
+
3) Hopefully, they also masturbate considerably less and/or are more discrete about doing so.

Fingers crossed!

tattoo woo

Moulin Rouge, you get me every time. Again, the greatest thing there is to learn IS just to love and be loved in return. Curse the sweet dream that is Boheme, but so it be. I cannot overcome perfection.

Back to contemplating tattooing the ideals around some limb, an unending cycle:
Freedom. Beauty. Truth. Love.

Viva la vie Bohème!

[gurgle]

snakes on a saint

Where does Nature sleep? Because I'm not above ambush and torture. Um, in the face of injustice...like this weather. Tomorrow is St. Patty's, and while I'm not Irish - never 'ave been - my hair is red this year so I have a Moral Obligation to do it up. I only have Moral Obligations so often, too, so this is serious. I mean bidnezz. Plus, ever has it been the only time of year that anything resembling Catholic comes out in me - a general sense of guilt (for slip-shod Irish impressions peppering the year), talk of penance, a desire to throw snakes around a bar (a la St. Patrick)(although Irish boys mean something different by that statement, so be warned), and a genuine sense of camaraderie with drunken priests (see: Exceedingly Happy Drunk D). Oh, drunken priests, the thought of you takes me back to my own early childhood...my atheist father having his priest friends over, them getting soused at the diningroom table, demanding I play things on my beloved old upright (piano), me sitting at the table with them instead and slipping myself booze, puzzling over men who see fit to never have romantic love or kids of their own just because some other guys decided that they shouldn't even though the lack of experience makes them by all logical counts less qualified to dole out advice in the areas in which most advice is likely sought, and flicking their little loosened collars as we all laughed. Oh, priests! Oh, Dad with priests! Being a fly on the wall in Dante's 'Inferno' couldn't compare (due mostly to a shortage of brimstones, magma, and a stretching rack but not by choice).

Want to know a great exercise in restraint? Try a 17 year-old in a philosophy course taught by a drunken priest. Proof of God stuff: good times. GOOD, good times.

And now back to our regularly scheduled liquor contemplation...

ides

Oh, Julius. You are one yummy orange drink.

Those Romans really knew how to name people, from the get-go with Romulus. Then ones like Marcus Aurelius. Augustus Maximus. Caligula Germanicus. Lucius Verus (rappers, I slap you for even thinking it). Cassius Severus. Titus Flavius Vespasian. Optimus Prime. Wait, not that last one. And J. Caesar...J-Cae, if you will (rappers, now you can slap me).

Then there's the girl name which will be a middle name for potential girlchild, which I saw first engraved on a building in the heart of Ancient Rome and will not here divulge. To look upon it was beautiful. It is, merely, glorious with a pinch of inspired awe.

Bush and Cheney just make me feel like we're in our very own Third Century. [Fog horn.]

Et tu? Who's going to do the revamped Police song for Julius? We can shoot the video onsite. Dibs on freakin' the columns though. That's ALL ME. [Cut to knife thrusting in slow-mo, woman's sexual-snarl face, Beyoncé trying to look stricken and beating her chest while bleating "Et tu?!" three times, heads rolling rhythmically down Senate steps, Brutus ripping off his own bling, gyrating women wearing laurel crowns in accidentally satirically inappropriate ways, Cassius and Marc Antony pole dancing on each side. Everyone is heavily sweating, and - horribly - their eyeliner is smeared.]

300 the movie, caffeine, slumber

I wanted to feel like a Spartan.

I did not. Although, it was extra-endearing when the audience clapped when the queen killed that dude (unspecified so as not to spoil it, and since I don't remember his name anyway).

It sated a general bloodlust, but we wanted to really revel in the glory of charges and strategies, and have our adrenalin shoot up with drums and billowing battle calls. Had it carried all this off though, my libido would've been uncontainable and BOY does that make for an awkward subway ride.

The cappuccino and then mass amounts of Coke at a 9:45 showing was likely a bad judgement call. Not so much of the sleep, and when I did have it, Drunk Self was superimposed on the Spartan world, all full of love and friendship. Seriously. The guy from Amistad was a messenger for Xerxes. We met in a field (no pit to kick him into! none!) and I talked to him about how rulers should be to his/her people as the sun to the crops, not a reaper. He thought this was lovely, and set up a meeting for me and Xerxes who was just my size instead of a towering giant in semi-drag, who arrived on a proper chariot and wearing a Persian head-dress (um, ya, their aesthetic would ne'er allowed for those asymmetrical headchains - says the Ancient World Fashion Police). The Spartan queen and I were having some tea, and up comes Xerxes and we're like, "Oh geez. It's such a nice day and he's totally gonna not let up on his conquesting business. Will someone bring grapes? Some more hot water for our feet maybe? Thanks! You're the tops." But then he was kind of in a funk and had a little tummy ache, so they brought him some special olive-rice dish that I really wanted to try but figured he should eat as much as he needed, plus...that I wasn't completely positive no one else hadn't poisoned it. Kind of poor form, really, to have just trusted like that and not had someone sample for him first. Oh, crazy dreams. First Rule of, erm, Rulers: have others die in your stead whenever possible. But Xerxes started feeling better, and we were doing funny doodles for each other and all laughing and I told him how when I was little I wanted to have a black stallion named Xerxes and he thought it was sweet...which was good, b/c I was thinking maybe I shouldn't've shared that. Some of those guys showed up in the metal masks and at first that seemed bad, but then X did this thing with his fingers and the four masks started making these hilario faces, and we were all cracking up, and he's like, "I can't attack you guys! I love you!" To which we were all, "Aw, fella! We love you too! You're so darling!"

I would-not-could-not have had this dream after the battle sequence in the final Lord of the Rings movie. SIGH. I want a berzerker dream. I want my battle ax and ash-smeared face.

Grudgingly civilized,
Wendy Warpants

corntoon

I don't know whose this is, which is sad, because they deserve some credit. It was just lurking in my old saved stuff.

fumes

Ma non fumare.

That would be dangerous.

But yay! The fumes from my paints and then cleaning brushes (with paint thinner) got my roomies and I all loopy. KR was leaving for a big Shakespeare audition (where her fluency in French 'plays' a part...sorry, incessant punning = sure sign of chemical exposure), so JS and I were trying to wish her luck.

JS: "Break a...no wait...break...merde!" Smiles, nods, "Merde."
me: "I like that, ja. Break merde."
KR: "Thanks."

viking karma

I was going to copy in an old piece for Sweet Fancy Moses that was a fairly fictitious retelling of unfortunate demises in my lineage. However, fleshing out the accidentally appropriate title of this posting, the fates seem to have ethnically cleansed my hard-drive of this. I do not know where it is. This makes me sad.

However, two other things came to light:
1) In searching through other files, I came across an old list of names. (I keep lists of many things, and names I like is a favorite though this list hasn't been opened in years.) And a name popped out at me immediately, so just like that - ka-blammy - the perfect name for a boychild. Sure, sure, I may never have one of those, but I'm keeping it all to myself just the same! It. Is. Perfect. Even saw a good girl one. I am truly accomplished.
2) My (newest) editor emailed recounting a tale from a movie theater and co-audience rudeness, which reminded me of an incident when I was about 16...[curtain drops, fade to black, re-opens in darkened movie theater] Despite the theater being largely empty, a couple chose to sit directly behind us. The woman asked me to move my head. (Insert big head joke here.) I obliged, sitting in my seat and shaking around, like a dance. My head was moving. And I was pleased. O! 16.

Back to Albinoni's fugue. (It's playing in background, and makes my chest cave in with tender mourning.)

but bet a bit of better butter bot

Great Toast Spirit, I am a-sorry...for careful introspection has produced an undeniable fact. Given that only 3/5 of the time that I re-insert you to get you 'just a bit' more toasted do I actually manage to pop you up before being charred, and that 100% of the times you are saved from charring it is because I have planted myself directly in front of the toaster, it can only mean that 2/5 of the time I am a thoughtless and/or callous bastarda perfectly willing to chance your non-carcinogenic consumability. Attention span of a flea: here! Regret: moin and mine alone. It would only be right that I drop off the toaster on the dried-leaf strewn steps of an old church in the night, but I am not right. I see myself for what I am now, Toast Spirit - a Wrong Selfish. You deserve better, and butter. The best butter!

cole porter meets 2007

Tra la la: "Birds do it. Bees do it. Even educated fleas do it. Let's do it, let's get piss-drunk, naked, and tied up in our front yards wearing several sex toys." - Israeli diplomat to El Salvador

Yes, he's been removed from his post. The CNN article notes Israel has suffered a series of embarrassing events with their officials in recent years, like:

In 2000, Israel's ambassador to France died of cardiac arrest in a Paris hotel under circumstances the Foreign Ministry refused to publicize.

Of cardiac arrest? [High-pitched Oscar Wilde-y inflection, eyes rolled back in head] MOOORtifying!

Meanwhile, media reports that the old dude was with a woman other than his wife in his hotel caused French and American political figures to shrug. Later, after scandal surrounded this claim, several furrowed their brows, perplexed.

(Big, smarmy thanks to my very dear though seldom seen friend Nice Mike for forwarding the story my way. Better, bub, or were you wanting 'props/big shout out' style?)

theoracle

Ha! I was just looking at this book:

• Baron-Cohen, S. and Harrison, J. (Eds., 1997). Synaesthesia: Classic and Contemporary Readings. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. ISBN 0-631-19764-8.

And was like, "S. as in Sasha? He studies synesthesia TOO?" Mais non. [Pat, pat.] This S. author's first name is Simon. All's well and right in the universe, as much as ever, anyway.

But I do have a question. I must be over-simplifying synesthesia, because it seems like this isn't at all weird. Wouldn't most people probably say that music is visual in the mind's eye? Isn't this why we can almost hear songs, or at least a few notes, when we look at some of Kandinsky's work? Plus, we can giggle when we think of art depicting the experience...as...here we go - synthetic synesthetics. Ba-bing!

[crickets]

And isn't it obvious that the senses intermingle? Sweet, dear, disturbed Baudelaire (and Rimbaud) - of course you were right about this.

On another note, doesn't it seem like this study could be applied to understanding other sensory/emotive relations - like when we touch people and suddenly can see nothing but a bright wash of a color, and then we also understand what that color means?

(I know, Eastern and Western color associations are typically considered contrary to one another but that's looking more to their immediate object/concept associations rather than 'meaning' associations, as in almost on an animal level. For example, red in the West is tied to anger where it is tied to life in the East. Both cultures also tie it to love. The translation for red then should simply be 'very important,' like an unconscious highlighting marker. White in the West has come to symbolize purity - although only as recently as the Victorian Age [scowl] - so American brides typically wear it in the marriage ceremony, though white is worn for death ceremonies in Japan. [Too perfect, right? You may play your Billy Idol...now.] White then signifies simply a shift or passage. The claim is that this is what Druids wore for ceremonies as well, but like we'll ever really know. Having stolen the costume of the Nazareno in Spain where the white robes denote the time of penance, there's about a thousand jokes to be made at the expense of Klan members but instead I'll just offer up the mental fix of adding the red letters of DUNCE to their caps. It helps, at least on our insides. Still, even with the KKK, any color could've been used to cover its members from head to toe in disguise, but the costume serves to mark the shift from Known to Unknown - which can also be said of Western weddings and Eastern death ceremonies as each is precisely this shift from the Known to the Unknown. To sum up and finally begin to shut up on this, then, color-meanings do seem to be universal if we learn to look more as we do in dream interpretation - not at the object-obvious ['ping'...now a term in the world] but at the deeper association. I tink dair's sumpting to diss.)

Now who knows someone who knows someone who researches this stuff? Because I WANT ANSWERS.

o

I just had the best grape tomato of my life.

cranial cuddling

Last night's dream: v. good.

I was supposed to be in some sunny Southern U.S. city, but it was actually London. Inside the walls of The Tower, some strangers saw me oggling the gate Elizabeth I had been brought through for her 'stay' there; we decided to build a raft and somehow the gate was up, so some of us were squealing with delight and clapping our hands like village idiots as we, um, rafted beneath.

Then there were astronauts. Naturally. We were having martinis in this bar and laughing how it was really too sunny out to be starting so early, but decided we were celebrating the sun, as we looked out this immense window. Then we started to slowly move through the streets and the rather Rat Pack-y astronauts were glancing at one another, amused. I was all, "How's this happening?" but didn't really CARE. Then I started seeing waterways and covered foot bridges, and then the Bridge of Sighs and realized we were in Venice...but then they told me we were actually in a rocket and that's how we were moving through everything. (Makes perfect sense.) Did I want to go up into space with them? Wouldn't it be a hoot? Oh, I suppose we are already in the rocket! Let's!

Only after our return did I remember that the last launching had ended with the previous female astronaut's death. We'd made it back fine, though.

And sneeze. Awake.