hippo-tortois-mus

Sometimes love knows no species-al bounds...

which is okay if you're not human.

No, it's not that kind of love. This itty bitty baby hippo was orphaned in a tsunami off the Kenyan coast and bonded in the aftermath with this century-old male tortoise who reportedly is "happy being a mother" to the little guy.

I just hope they follow the relationship and as it grows, he doesn't get all hippo (those things are nasty) on his ass and chomp his surrogate - for that would be sad. Meanwhile, this is so cute it's hard to look at.

The cherry on top? - the email signature from which this was sent read:

"Save the Earth; it's the only planet with chocolate."

You had me at hippo. You had me at hippo.

my boss is so f-ing lucky to have me

because he can say things to me, as he just did, like:

"You meet with Countess ___ tomorrow. Brush up on your Hungarian."

extent of muppet winsomeness tested

Tonight could be the night. At long last, AQ and I may put our plan into action of staving off potential vaginal seekers with a little something we like to call the Loverly Groverly.

Simply put, we respond in muppet Grover's voice to strange males.

"Can I buy you a drink?"
Grover says, "Mmmm. Dreeenk."

That sort of thing.

All that matters is that WE'RE entertained. È vero.

an appeal to my masochistic head

Head, please stop screwing with me. I specifically requested a good dream [see yesterday], and I have to say it hurt my feelings a little bit that you made no effort and have, instead, reacted contrarily.

Maybe it's funny to you, but making me dream of Happiest Times Which Came To Bad Ends, Said Ends Only Remembered Upon Waking is not nice. Have your fun at my expense, but remember who can slowly attack you via her intake apparatuses. Most relevant to last night, having me 'wake up' at various points in my life naked, with friends suddenly next to me and utterly confused as to what's going on, I could go without. It likewise isn't so cute to make me think I've lived out my whole life, am very old, and am being dumped back in time to figure out where I am in my own life, especially when you've completely created some of these points.

Head! Look at me. No, really, look at me. Come on. Let's not be like this. We're better than this.

where dad is "date"

Puke.

Wouldn't this be much more effective if the same were expected of sons? (Purity Ball for girls; Purity Balls for boys. Obvious enough.)

Happily, research indicates the cultish rituals are no match for teenage hormones, no matter how hot or abusive daddy is.

Sweet hormones. We bow to thee, for thine powers are mighty.

fox news freudian slip

Say what you (and I) will about Freud. The slips are still valid, at least sometimes.

Last night on Fox News (it was the only channel with a clear picture), the reporter said, and I paraphrase, "Bush has said he will spend 4,000 more troops...send 4,000 more troops to Iraq."

I hope they didn't flog him too severely for that one.

request to a specific unconscious mind

(Background: I'm a little sad that one of my friends is moving out to L.A., and it's not just because he could simultaneously escape a forest fire by being sucked downhill into the sea in a mudslide during an earthquake. We just also have fantabulous conversations, and even if sometimes he gives me a mildly concerned look, I don't have to edit myself - and this is entirely mutual. I like having special little worlds to share. It is a happy feeling. I like happy feelings.)

Actual exerpt from dream:
We are making giant ice sculpture babies, really chunky babies like eight-month olds, and having fun with how fluid and sloppy the layers of ice-fat are looking. There is pride in the ice-fat and a weirdly out of place soliloquoy a la Hamlet about appearance and actuality, expectation and touch, and the mutability of each. Wander around, contemplating; wander around listening to friend's voice contemplating and making me laugh. I walk off to get these special snow shoes my Lapp greatgrandparents have sent for me. Upon returning, a bunch of super-hero-esque men in jeans and tshirts who've gone without shaving for at least three days are lined up. The ice-babies are on mounts, and one after another, each man walks underneath a supported ice-baby, gets the ice-baby onto his back, and goes marching off with a happily dutiful expression - impossibly disproportionately large, fat ice-baby on back. Some of the babies start to wake up but we laugh and tell them to just go back to sleep. We're up to something, something we think is great, like a new step forward in evolution or something, and are excited.

And awake!

Now Head, pay attention...

What would've been a better dream:
Swinging from vines in a bug-less rain forest, then having my dreamfriendbird swoop me up into her ribs like usual and deliver me out to a soft stained-glass Viking ship, red sails and all. For a jester, there'd be a talking duck who would always let me pinch its cute duck cheeks, occassionally with a slight twinge of blushy embarrassment. Viking bunnies would stomp around trying to look all gruff, but then they'd turn around and giggle at themselves, and could jump up and down a series of levels to work all the sails. At night, the whole ship would turn into a giant egg and we could sink beneathe the water, sometimes luring sealife with our lights and laughing as they clunked into our one-way egg surface. There would also be lots of dark chocolate and berries, a koi stream, wing'd alabaster violins borrowed from The Graces, tribal drums, and fire ropes to make pretty shapes with in the sky or underwater. And a pair of really smooshy, warm slippers. That's a good start, I'd say.

another lauren and dahlia show

We will be girl detectives of a commercially unsuccessful nature, wherein our lackings are two-fold.

The characters will have neither suspenseful mysteries to solve, nor ever realize their own actions have answered the question at hand. For example, "Why is everyone in Southern California so stupid?" The characters go through a few scenes of trying to determine the culprit(s), but in the end just decide to go to the beach.

Like that.

menu bar of the soul

Per AQ's iTunes comment, the topic arose...

Therapeutic Evil Thought #492089790387, directed at someone who may anger me, most likely of the tech-geek persuasion:
If you had a menu bar, I wouldn't click Save or Help. I would go straight to Edit, then Find. Once located, View, then Insert: object. Perhaps a field would be inserted as well.

Edit: paste: tar. Edit: paste: feathers. Copy. Insert: break. Copy. Table? Yes. Insert table.

Edit: replace.

View: ruler.


(It's still raining outside. And cold.)

boiling water is magick

It's raining steadily and gray.

Watching the long, thin strands of spaghetti go from rigidly reticent to sea life interpretive dancers has been poetic.

It's amazing what water can do.

(Example: why I would never even consider taking acid and giving the brainthing free reign.)

hand-lotion unites 1/8 of a subway car's passengers

On my way home from work the other night, I realized my hands were dry. (Accurséd winter air.) But what luck! Julie had given me a new purse-sized hand-lotion, knowing my deep love of moisturizing. Rummage time.

Not the umbrella, the thingy I stick small things in, the ziplock still in there from flying homehome, the other ziplock with Mom-mix Mom put in my purse for my flight herehome, or the hat, or the Giant Beloved Sunglasses. Tube. Tube, squishy. Squishy tube!

Sweet relief. Yes.

When I looked up, people were looking in my direction - 'people' as in the whole end of the train. Okay. Their hungry little animals eyes zeroed in, and I looked back. Remember when you were a kid and you'd clearly walked in on a discussion you were not meant to hear, even in part? Like that feeling, at first, but then more a searching curiosity, heads scanning, noses aloft. Then the overly skinny 'do rag-wearing guy sitting two seats over on my right, at the end of the bench, says, "Excuse me, what is that scent?"

"My lotion?" [Blank stare taken as an affirmative.] "You really want to know?"
"Ya, it's amazing."
Girl between us, his overly fleshy and sweet-faced girlfriend (judging strictly by all the canoodling) adds, "It smells so good. What is it?"
Grab from purse. "Apparently," squint, "Mango Mandarin."
Guy: "Can I see it?"
Hand over.
Guy: "Can I use some?"
[Laughter peppered from our end of the train.]
"Sure. Have at it."
We watch him. He hands it back, with a thanks.
Me: "Feel better?"
Guy: "I do."
Woman across from us: "Wow, who makes it?"
"Don't know."
Girl next to me: "Where'd you get it?"
"From a friend."
Another woman, standing to the side: "Think it has a number on it we can call?"
I pull the lotion back out. It is a superstar, a god among purse objects, but I trust my other purse objects to not resort to puncturing violence or anything, even if they're feeling a bit neglected. Sorry, guys; you're all essential to my quality of life. Don't worry.
Me: "Oh, it's just B____."
Girl: "They make good stuff."
Guy: "I can get that!" He is genuinely pleased.
Woman to the side: "We should've just been a commercial."
Me: "For serious."
Woman across: "Your lotion just brought together an entire subway car."
[Shrug. Smile.]

And...scene.

Sometimes the subway has small moments so touchingly human. (This does not mean you, MTA.)

julie taymor's idea from age 12

I bet the set/scenic design in The Metropolitan Opera's Magic Flute seemed like a really amazing idea in 1976.

Julie Taymor, did you really consent to having your name used for this, and can't you stop them now? If you were in an altered state when you signed, that's not legally binding, you know. I know there's not much to do with a fantastical cornucopia of Freemason references married to the lamest romances, and I liked my magnifying bug box from the zoo, too, but it just doesn't really 'work' really big, on stage, with Tron-esque neon light tubes, no magnifying part(s), and costumes somewhere between Dr. Seuss, Japanese puppets, and Cirque de Soleil. However confusing/poor the writing, the visual "F- you, audience" didn't help.

And Met Opera knows it's turning out a slipshod piece, by its very nature, and essentially admits this. LZP found a quote in the program in an attempt to explain the poorly strung storyline, "The word 'magic' is in the title for a reason." (Paraphrased, but to that effect.) Thank you, Metropolitan Opera, for opening our eyes; we simply hadn't known this was an acceptable excuse.

"But it's a magical thesis!"

"It may seem like I didn't do what I swore I would, but that's all part of the illusion because, you see, it was a magical promise!"

M'ya.

Other than a strangely bass female voice in the audience belting out, "Yeah," in answer to the lead male's question if he were still alive and the six year old next to us lipsynching to the opera, gesticulating grandly, it was just so underwhelming (though I do still want one of those bears hanging from my bedroom ceiling). I'll cut Taymor slack because the film Frida is so visually lush, but there's tarnish on the mental medal she wears in my mind's eye.

Want to polish the medal. Wantsees eet to be SHINY. Blinding even.

now I see what you meant, god

Apocalypto:
I don't blame you, God, for being (beyond) annoyed with Mr. Gibson. Opening with the quote by W. Durant, "A great civilization is not conquered from without until it has destroyed itself within," immediately book-ends it exactly as one might suspect. First, the statement is an over-simplification of reality and fairly easily dis-proven historically. Secondly, when coupled with the ending scene of Spaniards with the crucifix, it puts the entire film right back into his Big Fat Obvious and Unrelenting Agenda.

Catholicism is never to blame! The Church is good, always has been, and when it seems like it hasn't been, that's the fault of those it overtook for already being weak.

Lord.

Anyway, the rest of it was great from a craft standpoint. Nice costumes. Um, some lovely shots. Potential for human stories. While fairly accurate according to what we now know about Mayan culture, it focused solely on the gore of it and not the 'why' or human condition of the gore. A more sane film-maker would've used this to illustrate religion exists to provide a sense of safety and control over the unknown, regardless of time, people, or place. Such a maker o' the films could easily have made the parallels, rather than seemingly miss them in comparison with today's religion and political climate. It's irresponsible and poor development to portray a culture so simplistically (whether focusing on positives or negatives). For example [slight spoiler warning]: during the solar eclipse, the Mayan high priest 'asks' that the sun return if the gods agree with his interpretation that the earth's thirst for blood has been sated...without even touching upon what phenomenal astronomers the Mayans were and that the priest most certainly knew the sun would be popping back out within moments...which would be a rather nice segue into rulers using religion to control the masses. Hello. Actual relevancy. And conveying this would've taken maybe 30-seconds more.

It was visually interesting, fairly skilled in developing a storyline with little actual material, but then this same lacking of development took away from making this nearly as relevant and human a story as it could have been.

Would someone else please do a pre-Columbian history movie, and actually delve into the empires? Come on! We have CGI and everything now. Oh, what am I saying...they'll all be cheesy - UNLESS [internal gong of happy idea] Edward Norton writes it. Would someone take this up with him? For me? Pretty please?

flattery

"If you were running a Communist country, everyone would want to be Communist." - Patryk [on my efficiency plotting in even the least significant things]

Sweet-talker.

not that easy, god

No, GOD, you aren't changing my mind.

Bring on the crazy plumed-men, account errors with my cell phone bill, lease re-signing issues with our invisible landlord, and the FBI wanting to ask still more questions about the stolen Picasso at work. I'm STILL going to go see Apocalypto. I know Mel Gibson is genetically inclined towards severely retarded tendencies, but, look, I've been wanting to see a movie realize pre-Columbian history since I was like seven or eight years old.

I can't help it.

Lay off.

recanting encouragement of feather-wearing by humans

A man got on the L this morning at 1st Ave with what at first seemed a self-styled buccaneer's hat, festooned with mismatched and occasionally worn and/or flaccid plumage (for these were plumes). Time to gauge crazosity.

Other details: a hat band made of craftstore plastic beads but not faceted because that would be unfashionable, a generally angry countenance, some sort of Marine 'Wing' jacket. Then the bird chirps started.

Oh yes. He'd spent plenty of time developing these. At first a few eyebrows twitched, but what's there to do beyond be annoyed at some freak's need to make bird noises. On the other side of the pole I was fortunate enough to be sharing with said freak, the bird noises stopped. His head darted out from side to side, to see if anyone had 'figured out' he was making the sounds (or so I assume).

He became disgusted. With us. Us all. All us paltry PEOPLE.

"God damn f&ckers. Never change. Always the same. Nothing never no different. I should just...[assorted violent fantasies, tuned out while I pondered his not double- but triple-negative]." Ah, Union Square, old friend. Take me into your belly. And make the birdman trip and lose his hat or at least not get on my next train.

We exited. As I neared the stairs, cawing echoed down the platform. People laughed.

2 days into 2007

Though our annual Most Depressing Day of The Year Party is still weeks away, AQ and I have gotten a headstart on general pessimism for the year. It's our way of consummating time.

And here are some of our special greeting cards we've proposed offering, in AQ/DM Sandwich Form:

Sorry to hear about the untimely death of your philandering husband.
May suspicion continue to be deflected from you. - AQ

Felicitous salutations on your engagement.
Always remember the joy you feel now. It's a comfort in the end. - DM

Sorry to hear about the loss of your beloved grandmother.
Unlike last time, they won't find her roaming the streets.
Just know these things happen, which was clearly her attitude when she wrote you out of the will. - DM

Congratulations on your recent arrival!
Sure, he's a little funny-looking, but look on the bright side: now he has to develop a personality. - AQ

et fin

When/Then

Issue:
Supercrazies on the subway

Solution:
Much more complicated turnstiles

Shanty O'f'd

And I quote:

"'ave you ever been down to an Irishman's shanty
Where water is scarce and whiskey is plenty;
A three-legged stool and a table to match,
A string on the door, without any latch?"

- lyrics we were actually taught in 2nd grade, no shite

And they WONDER...

Preventative Eating

The first step has been taken, a hard-learned one at that - Preventative Eating is complete. As one of two things is about to happen and I am either 1) drinking sake or 2) drinking vodka, in less than four minutes, pre-eating is simply procedural. Sober realization of this Knowledge (tip of hat for cap-ing that, Dickinson...and Germans), must be honored.

Justification:
The Drunkard Effect will be worsened/heightened by an unlined stomach; also, I'm hungry. Furthermore, JS's crew have repaid in pizza form the unfortunate Daria's Chicken, meet The Floor, Floor, Chicken incident. [Bows exchanged, which is appropriate even if it had been a girl chicken because I like to imagine whatever is consumed, poultry or otherwise, is still all about equality and freedom of expression. If there is some native/Highlander-esque 'gaining of the spirit of one's kill via devouring' thing, then this only stands to reason and thus far is being proven true. Or we've just disproven 'gaining of the spirit of one's kill via devouring,' in which case I apologize to all appropriate native cultures, but not to Highlander (fans).] Second Tier Justification then includes Knowledge that after a bit of imbibing, ze hungers vill szet een. The objective is to avert the surely bodily damning near-sleep lard-out by simply larding out early enough to give the body time to alcocize (now a term - you're welcome, humanity).

In this way, all is well and right in the world.

Except that I am now eight minutes past sake and/or vodka time (hello saketini re-conception).