The thing about diets is that they suck.
Diets require that you trick yourself into believing crazy things.
Things like, "Oh no, this piece of cardboard topped with spreadable plastic and vegan jerky is really quite delicious. It almost tastes like pizza!"
Or
"You know, I quite like eating healthy foods. It makes my system feel all clean."
Unfortunately, not being fat is a rather good thing. I don't care what NAAFA tells you. Yeah, you can be fat and relatively fit, but everything is muchmuch easier if you aren't fat. And I'd much rather be fit and strong and lean than fit-ish and fat. I get a twisted kind of happy doing shit like ellipticalling for an hour or doing the downward dog and plank pose, and the easier those bitches are, the happier I am, because it's just a matter of time before I can run around kicking ass like Jet Li. Or, you know, uh, jogging and stuff.
Which, I swear to god, is the only thing that is keeping me from ordering a giant bowl of cold sesame noodles topped with vegetarian "duck" right now. That, and this picture.
Kidding. But that's hot. Am I the only person who is more excited now that he's got ink? Can we get a bill on his mandatory-at-all-times-henceforth-for-the-good-of-the-nation-nudity written into law? Maybe tack it on to some banal legislation on transportation? Shit, that's what I call porkbarreling!
Yeah, even I don't know what I'm talking about anymore.
About this "Queens of the Stone Age" you love and so kindly sent me...
I fucking love them!
/\::::::/\
=^8^=
This would be superhappymangakitty face.
I can't think of anything I might like as much...except, maybe, Annoying Office Singalong Mix!
Goddamn, woman. Grace Jones, Queen, Digital Underground and Faith No More on one mix? A kind of crayji genius.
And a lot to live up to in return mixes. Dang. But I shall try.
Thanks so much!
Aaaaaaaaaand I'm back.
Saw the fam on Friday night/Saturday, and managed to avoid weeping at inappropriate times. Worked Sunday and Monday, and managed to avoid weeping at inappropriate times. Somewhere in there, I had time to finally watch Mansquito, and my main reaction was this:
"Has nobody heard of Off Skintastic? Avon Skin So Soft? Citronella candles, bitches? Raid, mofos?"
Also, I now wish to start a band called Blood on the Disco Ball (said name is now my intellectual property. Yes, I did just claim "Blood on the Disco Ball" could be used in the same sentence as "intellectual."). I would be the lead kazooist, shouter and dancer, a la that Bostones dude. I am taking applications for the actual musical spots. Our first song, of course, will be my ode to Mansquito. Wish you to join, leave your details in the comments section.
Watched Eddie Izzard's Glorious. I really do love him. And now I am tempted to respond "I'm covered in beeeeeeees!" whenever anyone asks after my wellbeing.
That is all.
Oh, also, barring any more urgently horrible news, I will probably still be hitting Chicago next week with TDMM. Anybody in the Chicago area still interested in meeting up during or after Blues Fest-ivities?
Thanks.
For everything. I'll be off for a few days. Hope you all have a great weekend :)
Today can totally blow me.
Fuck the whole day. Just fuck it. With a screwdriver.
Today is the first day in about ten years that I've woken up in fear for the life of a loved one. So it can just go straight to hell in a baby basinet.
These are the other fucked up fucking bullshit things that can bite me, and then lay down for me to piss on:
1. Passive aggressive motherfuckers who can't just fucking say what they mean, even if what they mean is "Bitch, I can't stand you," so they waste my goddamn time with pleasantries and bullshit when we both know goddamn well we can't stand each other. Today, motherfuckers like that can suck my ass.
2. The UWS Filen.es Base.ment, for not having a better selection of women's clothes, forcing me to go all the way downtown for that shit when what I want to do is curl up in bed with some Kleenex.
3. Slow motherfuckers, blocking up the sidewalks with your "which way do I wish to go?" indecision
4. The shitacular heap of asscrud that passes for healthcare for the poor and elderly? Hell in a flaming slingshot. After I piss on it.
5. Can you make a mocha without an attitude, heffa? No? Well you know what to do then.
6. Paris Hilton. This shit has gone on long enough. It is time to break out the uselesshoochicide and put her out of our misery, once and for all.
7. The NYC Channel 7 News. What is the opposite of " to give props"? How about, "to leave a flaming dump on your anchor desk"? Because Paris Hilton performing her usual attention-grabbing snatchrobatics? Is. Not. News. That's like saying your top story is that the sun came up this morning. Report back when she dons a habit and pledges herself to Christ, 'kay? Bitches.
8. Trainer man, usually I would sing your praises. But today? Today, you are in the shit house. I was up 'til four this morning, crying and slugging gin-and-sodas, because I just learned the man I love most in the world has cancer. And yet, I dragged my ass to our 11 a.m. appointment. The appointment you missed. Not only missed, but didn't even call to let me know your were going to miss. In fact, I had to call you. And did you apologize profusely? Yes? No. You asked me what time I wanted to come in tomorrow, like I was just calling for a chat and shit. And then, when I ask you why you aren't at our appointed meeting place at our appointed meeting time, you say you thought you could make it, but you couldn't? This is the third time in 10 days you have flaked out on me. And that's the best you have to offer? That you are in New Jersey? Nucca, do I pay you to think you can make appointments? And then miss them to be in New-fucking-Jersey? What the fuck?
9. Matter of fact, fuck New Jersey.
10. Hit-and-run bitches. What, are we shooting for a one-a-day average in this city?
This list will grow throughout the day, as I find it much easier to trade anger for weeping, and project said anger onto any- and everything that crosses my path....
Donate.
What the hell good does this do?
"Dear Mr. GOP, we promise not to block your SCOTUS nominees if you promise not to get rid of our nominal right to block SCOTUS nominees."
"Thank you, Mr. Dumbocrat. Now get back down there and suck my d--"
You get the idea.
Of all the stupid fucking bullshit asstard cockbiting moves! Because you know the GOP will still try to change filibuster rules if ever, ever, ever they do not get their way. The "bipartisan center held"? Yeah, the only things those motherfuckers are holding is a giant tube of KY Jelly.
GODMOTHERFUCKINGDAMNIT!
Will someone please. Please. PLEASE give Bill Frist a concrete bath? And then crack Joe Lieberman over the head with the resulting concrete asshole? Please? Can that be done? How do we make that happen?
I swear, I almost wish the filibuster fight had really come to pass, because I want the country to know just what kind of rule-breaking thugs they've voted into office. I want them all to remember moments like these, when they have no privacy, no money, no retirement benefits, no affordable healthcare-access, no tree-dotted landscape to see when they go on their good-old-fashioned American family vacation, and no rights. But it'll be okay, because they'll have guns, and a lot of children they weren't expecting, and they'll be able to show these great things to the Lord their Savior, when He asks what they've done in His name. Or something. I'm too motherfucking angry to even make sense right now. Can you say "motherfucking" and "the Lord" in the same paragraph?
I'm going to the gym.
International Ladies of Mystery!
Over at Busblog and Sepia Mutiny, there have been posts about the upcoming Miss Universe pageant. Well, posts at SM. Busblog just has a bunch of pictures, for the most part.
I finally got around to actually visiting the Miss Universe site, and had a peek at all the contestants. Delegates. Whatever you call 'em.
These are the things that occurred to me as I clicked around:
1. Some of these girls are still in high school. That is crazy. No 18-year-old girl in a bikini should serve as the model for womanhood around the world! I'm sorry, I forgot. This is a glorified fashion show. All bets of reason are off. Carry on.
2. Often, the browner the country (or at least, the browner the common perception/stereotype of residents of the country), the whiter the delegate. And vice versa. Examples:
Brown with pale delegates:
India
Namibia (okay, she actually is white)
Dominican Republic
Panama (who looks like Marcia Gay Harden, to me)
Pale with brown(ish) delegates:
Denmark
Netherlands
France
Germany
Norway (debatable, but check out the swimsuit and evening gown photos)
Italy (debatable, but check out her swimsuit photo)
I think this mix-up is pretty cool. Don't you?
3. Props to Miss Trinidad & Tobago, Miss US Virgin Islands and Miss Zambia for being the only delegates from the African diaspora, if you will, without serious weaves or bone-straight relaxers. That is courage.
4. Miss Turkey looks like LaToya Jackson.
5. I actually think Miss Denmark might win it. She's very attractive, and, uh, can spell. Some of the answers these girls gave...hello, editing!
6. So that's where Daisy Fuentes has gone!
7. This is just her porn star name. Her real name is Tinyhead McBroadshoulders. I'm kidding, she's beautiful!
Take some time to add your signature to this petition.
*****
Subject: Please sign emergency petition to save our courts.
Hi!
I just signed MoveOn PAC's emergency petition to stop the "nuclear option" the far right wing's plan to seize absolute power to stack our courts -– and I hope you will sign too.
Starting Monday, the petition will be delivered straight to Congress every three hours until the final vote, and many of our comments will be read aloud on the Senate floor.Please sign right now at:
http://www.moveonpac.org/nuclear
Why is this an emergency? This Tuesday, the Senate will vote on Republican Leader Bill Frist's "nuclear option" to break the rules of the Senate and give the Republican Party absolute control over appointing federal judges.
For 200 years the minority's right to filibuster has kept our courts fair, by making sure that federal judges needed to get at least some support from both sides of the aisle before they were given life time appointments.
If Frist eliminates the filibuster, his next step would be to force far right partisan judges onto the powerful U.S. Courts of Appeals. The real targets, however, are the four seats on the Supreme Court likely to become vacant in the next four years.
With that much power on the Supreme Court, the far right could strike down decades of progress on labor rights, environmental protections, reproductive rights, and privacy.
The "nuclear option" will live or die by a final vote, probably on Tuesday, and the vote is still way too close to call. There are at least 6 moderate Republicans still on the fence and only 3 more votes needed to win. If we can get enough of our voices into congress and into the streets in the next 72 hours, we can still save our courts.
Please take a minute to join me and sign the emergency petition today.
http://www.moveonpac.org/nuclear
Thanks!
A note to the class of 2005
I hate to break it to you, but...
High school never ends.
As it turns out, high school isn't the place where you learn a thing or two in between outrageous acts of selfishness and immaturity, clique hopping, petty turf wars and romances. It's actually the dry run. It's the place where you perfect your technique (or not, god help you) for the aforementioned.
Sorry.
But hey, now you know.
Good luck!
They have totally simplified my new fitness plan. And they actually taste a hell of a lot better than the similarly priced (and sized) Weight Watchers and Lean Cuisine dishes. And they're organic. And usually have fewer calories, probably because the dishes are all vegetarian.
Really, I love them. They also have the best canned tomato soup I've ever had.
Last plug: because I usually go out of my way to make fancy-pants dishes when I'm preparing food myself, I've found that eating these prepackaged meals (er, and not ordering in because of my diet) has started to save me money as well as calories. Who knew?
Wacky.
Their cheese lasagne is the shiznit. And the pot pies are brilliant. I loved pot pies when I was a kid, dangit, and I had to give them all up when I stopped eating air-and-land meats. Now, they are mine again! Yay!
Black Women, Black Men, and Interracial Dating.
After reading, and then linking, that Blackfeminism.org post, I got to thinking about our attitudes about interracial dating. The theory goes that black women are against it, largely because we lose out, while black men are rushing off in droves to other women, while still managing to muster ire over black women who date interracially.
I told you I would eventually throw in my two cents. This one will be really deep. So brace yourselves.
ER'RYBODY NEEDS TO SHUT THE FUCK UP AND MIND THEIR OWN DAMN BUSINESS!
I don't care if you, as a black man, are dating a non-black woman. Really. I don't. And do you know why? Because it is none of my muhfuggin' business.
The only reason seeing you with a non-black woman would irk me would be if you got all defensive and starting spouting some bullshit about why other women are superior to black women. Then, we gots le boeuf. However, if you would keep your goddamned mouth shut, I'll assume you are a happy, compatible couple. If some ignant ass gets all up in your face about why you're dating who you're dating, and you give enough of a shit to respond, say you care about the woman and you two have an assload in common, you know, the reasons anybody dates another person. And then tell them to fuck off. Great. Easy. See, I'm happy fo' ya. Move it along.
Now. If you see me with a non-black man, and this has been known to happen: keep your goddamned mouth shut. (You like how keeping your goddamned mouth shut works for both scenarios, right? I like streamlined efficiency plans, myself.) You have no claim to me. I don't want to hear shit about betrayal, or my womb and our race, etc., so on, and so forth. And no, it doesn't mean I don't date black men. It might just mean I ain't interested in your triflin' ass, okay? Hard to swallow, I know, but just keep it in mind as a possibility. (This is especially irritating to me as I recall, vividly, certain guys in college gossiping like two little bitchy bitches about how they just knew I only liked white boys, because one of those muhfuggas couldn't figure out how to get into my pants. Mind you, the other of those two bitches was regularly hooking up with a Korean girl, while his black girlfriend was doing her thang at our rival school, but that was okay, I guess. *eyeroll*)
Just zip it. Shut the fuck up. Because I assure you, I will be bitch enough to exercise my right to tell you to STFU to your face. I'm not tryin'a explain shit. My business, not yours.
Now, a note to my sisters: All this hollerin' some of us got goin' on? Needs to stop. What's done is done. If a brother has decided to date out, do you really think sniping at him over some shit that IS NOT YOUR BUSINESS, in the strictest sense, will charm him back? Intimidate him back? What? And even if he was a one-time denouncer of black women who has, thanks to your subtle remonstrance, sworn off non-black women forever, da hell you want him for? Let that shit go. Take care of yourself (in every way--physically, spiritually, emotionally) and find someone who wants you, if that's what you seek, no matter what color he is. Or choose only to date black men. That's fine too. But it is a choice.
And another note to my brothers: For real? Shut the fuck up. Thx. I mean, do your thing and all, but don't go telling yourself black women are the problem. The ones you have been seeing MIGHT have been a problem, but that speaks to your crap-ass judgement. Stop chasing crazy hoochie bitches, and stop whining about how goddamned hard you've got it when you know we've got it bad, too, and we ain't out in the street at all hours and we've got a job or two and we put ourselves through school and. And. And. We get it. We know. Your life is hard. So is ours. Man up and start showing us the respect you demand, and you should be alright with a sister, too, dumbass.
Is the issue always this cut-and-dried? No. Could it be if we all learned to mind our own damned business and keep our goddamned mouths shut? I think yes.
That is all.
*crickets*
Note to American men.
Please to give up your sports jerseys, baseball caps, gym shoes and baggie pants in favor of boot-cut jeans, button-down shirts or snug-but-not-Eurotrash-snug tees and maybe even blazers (but never, ever this, no matter how fine you are), and casual men's shoes of at least Kenneth Cole quality (no cheating with Sketchers. We can tell.).
Thx.
You will get more of the, the French word, how do you say, ah yes, poontangalangadang.
I love my friends.
I'm chatting with TDMM on the phone tonight and talk turns to our next trip to Chicago.
She says she's been thinking about our drinking and has a plan for the trip.
My heart is gripped by fear. See, we've been doing a bit of fitness buddying lately and had just been talking about our diets and new personal trainers and the relative merits of eating better, working out more, feeling fitter, etc.
I was afraid she'd had one of those obsessive diet epiphanies, the kind that leads women like Gwyneth Paltrow to send back cups of tea that smell like they might have held coffee, or leads the Zellweger girl to tote around travel mugs of decaf soy lattes to sip while giving interviews in restaurants so they won't have to risk ingesting anything that may cause them to bloat, swell, ripple or whatever it is they worry about. I was afraid she was going to say, with all this work we're doing, all this effort, let us not ruin it with booze. But drinky drink is, like, a third of the point of vacations, isn't it? Isn't it? The partying? Is my friend turning into one of those crazy joyless skinny women?!?!?! Is she really hoping I'll go to Chicago and spend six hours a day standing in the sun, listening to obscure blues, in a floppy hat with goofy hair because why bother getting it done to stand around in sweltering Chicago heat in a floppy hat, only to end the day with, what? A salad and a single white wine spritzer?!?!?!?! Could she?
Gripped by fear. Beat. Beat. Beat.
"So I've been thinking, I can fill a thermos with Grey Goose and a splash of cranberry juice concentrate, and then we can buy diet 7Ups and have delicious drinks at the BluesFest!" she says merrily.
I fucking love my friends.
So, I'm watching TV today (as I sometimes do) and I see this Napster-To-Go commercial eight billion times.
"Do the math!" they claim. Um, and being the bored iPod whore that I am, I did.
Napster claims will cost you $10,000 to fill your iPod (er, assuming you solely use the $0.99 iTunes, for every single song, and, uh, never use any of your ginormous iPod storage for anything else, like, oh, voice recordings, presentations, audiobooks, photos, etc. so on and so forth, and by the way, that's only $9900, not $10,000, but who's keeping track?).
BUT!
It will only cost you $14.95 for all the Napster-To-Go tunes you can handle! Woot!
Um, except for the whole, it's actually $14.95 PER MONTH and you'll only have access to the songs for as long as you subscribe bit. So, if you want those songs forever, you need to either subscribe FOREVER or, uh, buy all the albums and rip them, yesno? Which defeats the purpose of a subscription to this Napster, right? Am I missing something? Is there a way around this whole "for as long as you subscribe" clause that would make this kind of indenture worthwhile?
There is that whole, "you don't have to have an iPod" thing. You can have any one of a number of other players...that cost just as much for less storage, clunkier looks/handling and, um, totally random extras like an AM/FM tuner!*
I am beginning to totally hate Joss Stone. Sorry, that was random, but I have now seen this stupid GAP commercial featuring her ass, literally, like, 40 times. Fuck you, GAP. Get the ladies of Floetry up in that bitch, and maybe, maybe we can talk. Spare me your blond teen pop-soul wannabe, mmmkay? My tolerance for such artists died after Fiona Apple. Onward.
Nevermind. I just need to stop watching TV. It makes me ornery.
*Which makes absolutely no sense to me as an inclusion that is supposed to compete with iPod features, UNLESS of course you are also an undercover intelligence operative who handily uses your portable radio to detect bugging devices wherever you go.
It's finally happened.
I have finally seen someone write "ludacris" in all seriousness, where "ludicrous" should be.
I wept a little.
My worst fears have come to pass.
WHY GOD, WHY?! WHY CURSE US WITH HIGH-PROFILE CELEBRITIES WITH A PENCHANT FOR USING FLASHY WORDS THEY REFUSE TO SPELL CORRECTLY? WHY!?!?!
I mean, wouldn't it be more impressive to subvert dominant notions of our intellectual inferiority by choosing flashy words AND SPELLING THEM RIGHT, BITCHES?!?!
*grips head in hands, weeps*
I blame Fred Durst.
CURSE YOU FRED DURST!
YOU AND YOUR LIMP BIZKITIAN CRONIES!
Keidra, three days ago:
I WANNA BROWNIE! I WANNA BROWNIE! I WANNA BROWNIE!
Brownies are good.
But not as delicious as LAYER CAKE!
Okay, sorry Keidra, I couldn't think of anything else to start with, and all through the movie I kept thinking I WANNA BROWNIE! I WANNA LAYER CAKE! I WANNA DANIEL CRAIG!)
Dude. Hush. I enjoy saying "Dude."
Let me first point out that, generally speaking, I'm just not into blonds. Well, natural blonds, anyway. I can find them charming, but I don't look at blonds and go, oooooooooh, hot, I want. They just don't do it for me.
And a while back, when it was rumored that blondie Daniel Craig could be the next Bond, I saw some stills of him and I was skeptical. Not that I could give two poots who's the next Bond, but. You know. I didn't see it.
Well, I ain't skeptical no more. Because that man is hot as a muhfuggah. He's not purty, I don't think, but he's hot. As a muhfuggah.
He's ideally built: tall, long-limbed, well-but-not-too-heavily muscled. I would pay money to be allowed to lick his forearms, just a little. Double rate if I'd get to bite.
Oh, I'm sorry, this was supposed to be about Layer Cake.
It's like this: I like Brit crime/action/gangster films. A lot. Even when they're not that great.
But this was great--solid filmmaking, moody, striking, meaty, loved the cast, the soundtrack, the pacing. I just might see it again later this week.
There, film covered, now back to Mr. Craig.
Or not. You know, I had to look very hard to find a photo of this guy that didn't make me go, "Uh, and what was it I saw in him again?" Hm. I guess you had to be there. So go watch it.
Sid makes an awesome East Asian, Botticelli and Mucha, but a freaky as heck Caucasian, and, contrary to long-held personal belief, would totally not be a really hot guy whom I would, myself, date.
Damnit.
It's worth trying yourself out from all the different starting phenotypes, just to see how the program works. For instance, identifying myself as Afro-Caribbean in the beginning (my actual heritage) produces really, really, really different results than starting from West Asian (which the photo of myself used is closest to in appearance), which yields ginormously different results from identifying as East Asian to start, etc.
Wacky.
Ohdearlord. When I Afro-Caribbeanized the photo of Ewan McGregor I stole from Viv, I swear to god I get Eddie Izzard in bronzer.
And it was not good. Not at all.
Adult Swim.
This post is about swimsuits.
Big-lady swimsuits.
(It'll be short, promise.)
I hate them. They are all either floral cataclysms of death, neon cataclysms of death, floral-neon cataclysms of death, OH NO SHE DID NOT LEAVE THE HOUSE WITH HER SHIT HANGING OUT cataclysms of death, or any one of the above, plus skirt.*
It's almost impossible to find one with adequate "support," or better yet, an underwire. Why don't they all come with the comforting restriction of underwire? Huh? Because, frankly, I don't like the idea of my tits taking off in opposite directions as soon as I hit the water.
Did I mention they are almost always fugly? I hate that.
I wish all swimsuits were black long-sleeved bootcut swimsuits. That would be nice. Even bloody scuba wetsuits have tapered legs, and I hate tapered legs.
The end.
*I hate the skirts. I hate them. Why are they there? What do they cover? Who has a tiny, unappealing ring of fat only in the two inches around the thighs that these skirts cover. Nobody. Nobody. So you just made the suit even uglier for absolutely no fucking reason. Wunnerful.
Gratitude.
I can't remember now exactly why I started this blog. I think it was some combination of boredom and wanting to try my hand at unstructured writing/journaling and, frankly, megalomania.
I don't recall what I expected of it. And when I started, I fully believed I would give it up within weeks, as I have done with every other journaling whim I've taken it into my head to pursue.
I certainly never expected to become part of a community of clever, interesting, witty, supportive, hilarious, thoughtful, courageous, stereotype-busting women and men.
I consider some of you friends, some I've met, some I plan to meet ASAP (August, huh, Mary?), some I may never meet, but I enjoy our exchanges or simply reading your thoughts just the same.
I think that you've all helped me not go completely off my nut these last few months. Because this city has been working hard to make me go completely off my fucking nut. Completely. But, you know, I haven't, yet.
Just wanted to say thanks.
So, um, "Thanks!"
:D
How wonderfully succint.
You really need to read through the links to get the backstory for this. So don't get all worked up and offended until you do.
Most of y'all have been reading BF.org since way back, anyway.
As usual, I'm all late.
Anyway, it's a good discussion of a topic I don't have the strength, energy or time to approach yet (black men, black women, and our respective issues about the others' interracial dating).
But one of these days, I will. And then one of us (probably me) will be sorry! Just you watch!
In other news, I am sick of this layout. Where can I either find a decently-priced design group or a reasonably simple-to-follow instructional site/book? I desperately need something less dull and pink.
The one in which I almost, kinda, sorta, maybe pretend to be deep.
Man, do I fucking need a shrink.
I could give you 10 reasons a day why I need one, trust me.
Here's today's, though, which I think is far superior to my usual whinybitchery:
I just got an Evite to a party for a member of my paternal family. I don't see them all that often, but we're good; sometimes we have dinner, hang out, what have you. We still talk.
I do not, however, talk to the pater. I haven't, for, oh, 12 years now, I think. I haven't actually seen him, gazed upon him with mine own two eyes, in the flesh, since I was nine. I haven't heard his voice since I was 15. I haven't read his words since I was 18. Nothing of him for the last 9 years.
I have my reasons. They aren't terribly relevant to this post. They also aren't terribly original.
I've been ambivalent about seeing him again, I've been considering seeing him again to let the healing begin, I've been violently opposed to ever talking to him again, ever, if it would mean the moisture of my breath might dampen a fire on his head. Which is rather harsh. The man only abandoned me, after all. But, you know, that shit stings.
Anyway. Who is on the Evite guest list besides yours truly? All chipper and RSVPing and shit?
My thoughts turn immediately to his whereabouts. (He's in the city. Huh. I'd heard it, but wasn't sure. I might have passed the man every day of my residence here and I'd never have known.) His appearance. (I remember him being short, which explains my midgetry, and bespectacled, which explains my blindness.) Oddly, I vividly remember his scars: a bulletwound in his calf, from some misshap suffered when he was a detective, and some frat symbol branded into his chest.
I'm not concerned with his reasons, his history, his prevarications. I've heard them all. Even some he told others, totally outside the family (as when he told an old mutual friend of his and my mother's that he was working hard to put me through my Ivy-league school. To the contrary, his regular child-support dodging and lack of assistance almost got me kicked out after my first semester, because the financial aid office was not taking "he's not giving us anything, no we don't have any more money" for an an answer. Yes, I am still very, very bitter about that.)
It's weird. It has been so long since I've had any communication with the man that I sometimes forget he exists. And then these little reminders pop up. I think the paternal fam would like us to make up. My grandmother keeps saying things like "water under the bridge."
Goddamn it. I'll decide when the mighty Native American-named river of Pissedthefuckoffanddamagedashellapaqua stops flowing under the fire-bombed Trustinmen Bridge, thankyouverymuch.
The thing is, though, I don't burn. The hatred is not seething, or hot. I don't hate the man at all, actually. And I see a great deal of him in me, in ways that I think are useful, if only to recognize the devils I'll have to face. Like a taste for adventure. A penchant for flight. A rootlessness.
And that's it. That's what he is to me, now. A lesson. I don't think seeing him, talking to him, will do me any good. At all.
If I saw him, it would be for him. (Assuming he is behind any of the reconciliation hints. Shit, he might not give a fuck for all I know.) And, sadly, I don't much care if he sleeps easy or not.
And I'm just tired. And numb. And not willing to play make up at some family function for the sake of the family, and not mean-spirited or self-centered enough to hurl the evite, if one could hurl an evite, back to its source ranting about manipulations and not wanting to see that man.
It doesn't matter, anyway. As it stands, the event is right-smack-bang in the middle of my next Chicago trip. Which is all I mentioned when I declined to attend.
And that is absolutely diplomatically slight prevarication, and, I think, okay.
New blog crushes
Ding: thanks for commenting and liking my blog! The feeling is mutual.
And everyone should go read her.
Bobbie: I haven't blogrolled you. Sorry! Rectified immediately.
This guy: Oh, to be 20 again.
And this just in:
Tia Williams, author of last summer's chickalicious novel The Accidental Diva, has her own beauty blog, Shake Your Beauty. Yay! Tips! Also, you should check out her book, which is a fun summer read (another is on the way, soon, I hope) and poke around her site for more good stuff.
Everybody else, click here.
Not work-safe, for the squeamish, dirty-minded, or those afraid of lighthouses.
Various and Sundry
1. I take it all back. Except fot that gospel-choiry song, I kinda suddenly love Hot Fuss. And I'm even kinda down with that song until dude starts crowing about how he's got soul but he's not a soldier, which makes me snarkily snicker every time I hear it.
2. My sisters of color, we need to chat right quick about foot love. I don't mean the toe-sucking, shoe fetishizing kind. I mean buying and wearing shoes that fit. This is more important for us than for the melanin-challenged.
You see, when they wear shoes that rub and blister and pinch, they get little red blisters and welts and what have you that go away when they go away.
Many of us, on the other hand, have a tendency toward hyperpigmentation. And when you routinely abuse your feet and have said tendency, the results are not pretty. Not at all.
I was at my favorite shoe store today and saw a beautiful sister rocking the spring prairie-skirt and-sandals deal, and she looked right cute.
But.
Her feet. Her feet.
A latticework of dark scar-rings from above-ankle to heel, little nobs o'brown on big and little toes--and it was clearly due to ill-fitting shoes.
Don't let that happen to you. Please. And if it has, work it out with some fade-cream or something. Because we all notice. Is "jank" appropriate here? I'm not up on the lingo.
3. Brothers, ladies appreciate admiration, but can it wait until we're off the phone? You see me holding a conversation, phone-to-ear. Don't get upset if you try to holla and I don't respond. What, you expected me to hang up? Yeah, no. Not gonna happen, sweets.
4. Does anybody else have cravings for boy-flavors like the have tastes for different kinds of food? Because, I swear today I had a hankerin' for a tatooed, buzz-cut Asian boy. And two days ago I was all about middle-aged bald guys in nice suits and man-scents. Is that weird?
5. I just realized my Velvet Revolver CD is a dualdisc. I watched the videos on the flipside and watched Scott Weiland totally out-whorewiggle all the professional video-hos onscreen.
Outstanding.
Bless you, Scott Weiland, for being sex on wheels. I've also belatedly developed a crush on Duff McKagan. I dunno where the hell that came from. Huh.
Oh, but I was highly amused and slightly disturbed when reading the liner notes for the album, which I am also growing to love with repeat listenings--they're all so bloody domestic now, with their thanks to their Grammas and wives and personal trainers.
Yep. My rock gods have gone from writing drug anthems like "Nighttrain" to thanking their personal trainers in the liners.
6. Both Feministe and Heart on a Stick have now featured Cat Town, which is actually hilarious, and you should maybe check it out, because I would like other people to understand that when I start going "Deedle doot doo dee dee!" or "Hurr hurr hurr!"I'm not barking mad, I'm just unoriginal. It could be the next "I'm Rick James, bitch!" if we all do our part. Which would be good, since Chappelle is never coming back. Or is he?
HAPPY MOTHERS DAY!!
Happy Mothers Day to my favorite lady and world's best mom, Callalillies.
Love you much, Ma!
And to the blog mommies, or blog babymamas, whateverthehell is going on with you people on the internets these days, HMD to you, too!
Don't Panic.
Saw Hitchhiker's Guide last night.
Hitchhiker's was a really good book. You should read it.
The film, sadly, is another animal altogether. Not terrible, but I've seen better (funnier, more interesting, etc.) films.
Perhaps the fault was in the editing. Or the writing. It had a decent cast: Mos Def, Zooey Deschanel, Stephen Fry, John Malkovich, Jonathan Schwarzmann, Kelly MacDonald, Sam Rockwell...
Eh. The only things that stuck with me were the previews, which sucked ginormous sperm whale nuts, and Sam Rockwell's monster-finger. It skeeved me.
I'm beginning to notice that a lot of Hollywood star-types have monster-fingers. Like Vince Vaughn, Daryl Hannah (okay, she's just missing a nub), and now this Rockwell fellow. Creepy.
I have a theory.
It involves creatures of the underworld walking among us in human guise, malformed monster-fingers being the only giveaway of their true underworld demon-creatureness, though, and is thus highly improbable.
On to the previews.
Note to Disney: If the best your new CGI-animation partner Vanguard can do is a movie about fucking homing pigeons, and the trailer (you know, that teaser that's supposed to contain some of the best parts) for said homing-pigeon film did not elicit a single giggle from anyone in the audience during previews, then maybe--just maybe--you need to send some hookers and blow to (or just hookers to blow) the head of Pixar and get those bitches back. Because you're fucked.
Seriously, Diz, homing pigeons? What the hell were you people thinking?
Then again, Pixar's last Disney film is going to be about some goddamned talking cars, and Vanguard's last enterprise (or at least the last enterprise of its head) was Shrek, so, what do I know?
Meh.
Crisis Averted
This afternoon, at 3:45, during my post-workout cooldown walk, disaster struck:
Baby froze. FROZE I SAY!
She wouldn't respond to anything. No amount of hold switch toggling or play/pause and menu button holding would get her to respond to me.
I was horrified.
She just kept looking at me, with her little frozen screen that said 3:45, maroon 5, shiver, 0:00 -2:59, >.
I panicked, but only a little. I bought the AppleCare extendaplan, after all, just in case this sort of thing happened, because with my luck, this sort of thing would happen just after the 90 days is up, which it did (I think I'm actually at 123 days).
I called those AppleCare support folks, and they were totally not bitches. My support dude, who sounded eerily like my ex-boyfriend, told me to toggle the hold switch and then hold down the menu and center buttons. It worked!
Baby is now okay, crisis averted!
Thanks, Apple support dude!
This shit better not happen again, though. I don't know if my nerves can take it.
As an aside, though:
Homemade rice krispy treats + beer + BASEketball = fucking good time.
That is all.
Bobbie = brilliant.
Irritating and Ironic Hipster Bullshit, Or, The Moment I Realized My Youth Was No More
A strong case could be made that my ear for music stopped evolving in 1998.
Hell, look at my little roadtrip playlist, or any of my FR10s. Some time around then, I just stopped paying much attention to music.
I also am/was/will likely always be a tattooed (lightly), pierced (acceptably), beer-swilling (at this very moment, bitches) rock girl. I don't try to hide this.
But I've felt quite out of the loop, lately, with all kinds of music. I don't watch the MTV no more. I've fallen behind. And I can't catch up by watching the MTV, because I'm finally old enough that the MTV pisses me off and I start grumping about how it is turning kids these days into assholes (Haha, just kidding, MTV. I really love your work. Please let me be one of your editorial underlings. I am so down with the kids! I'm the downest!) .
Mmmm, my point.
Oh, also, I hate radio. And I have no muzak-loving associates nearby at the moment to advise me. So.
I went to Tower. They have listening stations there, you know. I could listen to an album, and then decide if I liked it enough to spend $15 on it! I had a budget of about $50. I spent $30 on the STP album and some Sublime yesterday.
I listened to The Hives, Jem, Jet, Iron and Wine, QOTSA, Kasabian, Interpol, Hot Hot Heat, and on and on. The Hives did not suck, but made me inexplicably antsy. I realized by track 4 that I would want to kill Jem if I listened to the whole album at once, ever, even if it was only $9. QOTSA's Lullabies to Paralyze was the only album of theirs I could find, and somehow I wasn't too thrilled, though I will keep trying because I trust Keidra's tastes. Kasabian made me happy at first, but after about 4 tracks, I started to hate them.
In the end, I spent $14.11, on The Killers' Hot Fuss. And only because it wasn't at a listening station, and thus I couldn't prove I would hate it, and I've heard two songs I actually like somewhere, and I wasn't leaving emptyhanded.
I've heard it. I like those two songs. For fuck's sake. There are gospel choirs involved in some of the other songs. WTF?
*eyeroll*
Rock used to be so earnest.
Now it's all ironic hipster bullshit. Goddamn.
I blame Fred Durst.*
CURSE YOU FRED DURST!
*Because I think A&R folks got together and said, "Okay, kiddies, what's the opposite of Fred Durst? What is the opposite of a faux-hard, playboy, tattooed, takes himself way-too-seriously dirty rock-rap boy? And someone said "Dude, fey hipster boys in skinny ties and ill-fitting suits and pointy-toed shoes who're totally ironic, like, all the time!" Grrrr. Grrrrrrrrrrrr. Gr. Shit, I almost want Buckcherry to come back, if only for the promise of ego, strippers and cocaine.
What De Fuck?
Okay.
Who in the hell started looking at my blog at 9 in the morning and didn't finish until 2 in the afternoon? And looked at 224 different pages?
I am seriously concerned. This is why I shouldn't have any sort of stat counter/IP tracker available to me. I actually pay attention to it. I'm all freaked out now.
Because I don't have shit to say that could keep anybody entertained, or even mildly interested for that long, unless they were being paid. Hell, I couldn't read my own shit for that long, and I'm one self-obsessed boosnatch. Christ.
Please stop. You're making me very scared. The only reason anybody would track this blog that closely would be to amass damning evidence of my boosnatchery, I'm sure, and that cannot be good.
Fook.
Media.
This album has brought me such joy in the last 48 hours.
I do hope Scott Weiland keeps his shit together. The music world I think is a better place with his voice in it.
This film made me want to alternately giggle and gag last weekend, and if you can see it now, do: apparently an American remake is already in the works. You know, because Americans can't handle all that reading at the bottom of the screen and shit for young, attractive Europeans, let alone a middle-aged Korean guy. Or so Hollywood seems to believe. Sigh. Somehow, I don't think the plot will be so well received by the Americans who actually do need to see this with some golden boy as the star, and I predict the plot will either be fucked all to hell with modifications by the time the remake comes out, or it will be very, very unpopular.
This book is turning out to be a little too, er, action *waggle brows, nudge-wink, obscene gestures* heavy, and, uh, actual action-light. Not quite disappointing, but I rather enjoyed all the intrigue and fighting in the prior books. Who'da thunk I could be put off by too much of the dirty? I thought I was a dirty little bird. Huh.
Okay, I'm going to go out and try to find a way to entertain myself now. You know, away from the compooter.
Happy Friday
For once, something serious.
A blast went off early this morning in a concrete flowerpot on Third Avenue, near 51st St.
The blast, authorities said, was caused by two toy grendades packed with gun powder, which detonated around 3:35 a.m. A glass pane in a nearby building was shattered, but there were no injuries.
No organization has come forward to claim responsibility, but there has been speculation that the act was perhaps tied to the British elections being held today, as the blast occurred outside the building that houses the British Consulate, as well as other tenants.
As usual, authorities are ignoring the most obvious suspect: the I.R.A.. Aside from the fact that the blast occurred outside the British Consulate (on an election day in which, according to a recent NYT article, Sinn Fein is expected to pick up some parliamentary seats), and were planted in a giant flowerpot (and we all know that the leading employer of Irish immigrants in this city--after Irish barsteraunts--is the urban gardening industry), and today is the 24th anniversary of the hunger-strike death of I.R.A. member Bobby Sands, and, um, the TV movie "Elvis" featuring Irish actor Jonathan Rhys Myers is set to debut this coming Sunday, I've got a lunch appointment to dodge at that Third Ave. Starbucks and I need to divert attention from myself.
Or maybe it was Greenpeace, trying to free the begonias.
In other news of terror, the unaccountably famous "Pussycat Dolls" have apparently released their first single, "Don't Cha," featuring Busta Rhymes. The song, which has absolutely no appeal without its stripper-lite video, is an assault on the ears that sounds like what would happen if you gave a bunch of very fit women free reign of a studio, encouragement out of all proportion to their talent, and access to Busta Rhymes. Oh wait, that's exactly what it is.
No organization has claimed responsibility for the single, but suspicion has already fallen on on-again, off-again Pussycat Doll Carmen Electra, who was convicted in 1992 of a similar attack on taste, common sense and ears with her self-titled debut album and rap single "Get On Up."
This is what happens when I blog pre-coffee. This post seemed like such a good idea when I started.
I've taken to ordering a venti iced mocha with an extra espresso shot.
I think the baristas are beginning to snicker at me.
But hey, crack is hard to come by in this neighborhood.
If I were to run away, these are the tunes I'd do it to.
1. Interstate Love Song, Stone Temple Pilots
2. Rearviewmirror, Pear Jam
3. Paradise City, GNR
4. Epic, Faith No More
5. Creep, Radiohead
6. Naked in the Rain, RHCP. Maybe.
7. Add it Up, Femmes (thanks J! And yeah, half of the songs floating in my head once were my hooptie mix-tapes)
8. Today, Smashing Pumpkins
9. When I Grow Up, Garbage
10. Come as You Are, Nirvana
11. 100%, Sonic Youth
12. Searching With My Good Eye Closed (Keidra, I had and lost this album, but I vaguely remember loving this song, so, thanks!)
13. Are You Gonna Go My Way, Lenny Kravitz (thanks, Jazz!)
This list is an ongoing effort. Suggestions?
Ah, it's haiku Tuesday, and yet I cannot think of anything I'd like to haikubleate. I reserve the right to do so later in the week.
Well.
A waist-like groove is beginning to appear in the tubular area between the twins and my rump. And the numbers on the scale took a sudden dive that I cannot account for, save to hope my workouts are finally working out.
Eeeeeeeeenteresting.
In other news, I saw a rerun of "Late Nite with Conan" from March, with The Rock on it. Damn, he's pretty.
Just thought I'd point that out. And I love Conan. If only I could make them one man. And then lock him in my closet.
There are picture-posts I am planning to do in the near future, but I just am not feeling it right now.
How are y'all?
Memetastic
So, over at One Child several days past, a new meme: name five things your peers are wild about, but which you don't really "get." This is going to be so easy.
Before I get into that, though, will you go read his responses? Beauty. I totally envy his writing. And his ability to share it with such confidence. 'Course, the confidence could come from the fact that his writing is great...
Okay, for my sub-standard, non-poetic, bad-funny answers:
1. Fucking hairy wildebeast-y boots, at this time of year. A few weeks back, I saw a really cute girl at Fairway wearing an outfit so cool I was tempted to tell her how nice she looked--little orange ribbed clingy matching skirt and sweater set...until I looked down and saw she was wearing Uggs. Goddamn.
2. Hip hop/gangsta lit. I try to listen to the people who hold it up as a positive thing, something that gets people reading, but then I pick up something--anything published by Triple Crown, for instance--read just the back cover copy, find generally a minimum of three major spelling errors (Don't. Get. Me. Started. On. Wording. Or subject. Or fuck it, the cover art, half the time.) And I seriously get angry right there. I start talking to myself about how these bitches could at least hire a damn copyeditor or some shit, from a local college newspaper or something if they can't afford a real one, call it an internship, damn, have a whole generation of bitches who will never know the difference between "they're," "there," and "their".... Then I toss it down and storm off in a huff.
3. Needing to have the teeniest, tiniest cell phone at any cost. When I was temping, I worked in a Verizon store for about a month. I distinctly remember a kid who couldn't have been older than 17 showing off his new phone, which was supposed to be all the rage. He'd paid close to $700. It was so small he couldn't hold it up to his ear properly. And it had no useful features.
4. Motivation in a rubber band. I'm glad they help raise money for a good cause. I am. And I know they inspire. But there is something so wrong to me about grown folks wearing the '05 take on jelly bracelets. And those little bands don't even come in great colors. What are they, yellow, green? So you kinda look like you just escaped from some institution.
5. Super-skinny over, say, strong or shapely. I'm not hating on skinny women. But I do think it's time for someone to say skinny does not look good on every body. And no, I did not mean to write "everybody," and hit the space bar accidentally. I meant "every body." We come in different colors, heights and bone structures, people. A slight, thin-boned, narrow hipped woman looks like she should be skinny, so when she is, it doesn't usually look awkward. But a super-skinny woman who has solid bones and broad hips just looks like she starves herself, and her too-skinny-to-ever-meet thighs look like the warped, dried-out swinging doors of a ghost-town saloon when she walks down the street. Please, go with your bone structure! I'm trying to. Not likely I'll ever be the roughly 110 lbs. I should be, but, you know. I gotta have something to shoot for.
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