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.