All kinds of stupid.
Until rather recently, I was under the impression that I am a relatively well-balanced person.
Lately, however, I can't figure out where I end and the shitstorm around me begins. And what's worse is, I can't tell whether or not I'm imagining the shitstorm.
Eh.
Which is to say, if you haven't noticed, I am slightly miserable most of the time. Usually I am good at covering it with the funny, but the funny is running out.
Goddamn is it running out.
So.
Urm. My point would be...
Pardon any extended periods of grump and asshatery, as a slow-moving shittibitch storm-front is moving in from the south, and is likely to settle over the area for the next few weeks. Dumping shittibitchiness all over this blog, undoubtedly.
*******
I recently (today) visited an old alumni website and discovered that, for some
GODFORSAKEN reason (like, I thought at the time I might write something coherent, relevant, interesting, or of worth in this bitch, um, ever?), when I set up my account there I included this blog as my homepage, with my real name, and so
some people might have reasonably concluded, upon seeing that link, that I might want people I know to read this here little bloo-bloggy-blig-blahg.
Shit.
Funny thing is, haha, just the other day I was extolling the virtues of said site to a coworker, ha. Haha. Ha.
Shit.
*SMH on concrete*
Jeebus.
All kinds of stupid. All. Kinds.
So, in essence, I think I have to issue a
partial retraction of my initial "Keep that shit to yourself" post, to anyone who may have found this here little bloo-bloggy-blig-blahg through a certain fancypants college alum association networking site represented by a certain equilateral geometric figure for which the, er, interior angles equal 360 degrees. Shut it. Nine years since I've had a math class, holy hell, I think 11 or 12 since geometry, so I'm actually pretty proud of tha--no, actually I'm not. I'm fucking ashamed, and cannot believe how little I now remember of something so simple. No wait, geek that I am I just looked it up, and I was actually correct in the way I described it, interior angles and all. Woot!
I had a point.
Ah, yes. Should you fit the above description, I officially beg you, on cyber hands-and-knees, to let me know, and then stop reading, promptly,
please. Wait, no. Don't tell me. That would be the fifth awkwardest moment of my life. No wait, tell me. Okaydon't. Maybe slide an anonymous note under my door?
******
Aunt Flo is in town, and as usual, she has officially fucked me up. I just want to curl into a little foetal ball and read
my new book and maybe later fall asleep, weeping. Tomorrow I will rise prepared for another day. Which will very likely end with weeping.
Hmph.
Anybody wanna see some
Basquiat with an emotionally shattered weirdypants? Best way to see some Basquiat! No? I can't imagine why not.
Hmph.
And to the NYC crew--are we bowling Saturday afternoon? If so, I vote Bowlmor! If not, um, well, I'm going to see
Hitchhiker! Or
Oldboy. If I can fucking find it. You like how I've totally ignored
Tribeca, right?
Hmph. All kinds of stupid.
This makes no sense.
PC games I've seen while researching educational software:
"Easy ABC," listed as suitable for ages 8 months+
Let me know when you meet an 8 month old who has mastered his own bowels, let alone vowels. Or a computer.
"Help Me 2 Learn"
This doesn't even need explanation.
With that title, I'm guessing you can't.
Note to Kellogg's cereal makers.
Please to make your Red Berries and Vanilla Almond Special K cereals less delicious. This would make it easier to eat the 3/4 cup (approx. 17.5 flakes plus 3.64 berries/almonds) servings you recommend. It is impossible to eat so little of a cereal that tastes like Frosted Flakes with nuts.
Thx.
And ANOTHER, um, NOTHER THING!
Should you be someone I may know in real life, and yet are not someone I met because of my blog, and I have not alerted you to the existence of said blog and/or have especially not given you the damn URL and you find yourself reading it, ever:
Keep that shit to yourself. I don't want to know. I'm fucking repressed enough in my day-to-day as is.
*SLAM*
(Edited to add) And by "keep that shit to yourself," I mean "Keep that shit to yourself." Don't allude to it in conversation, don't share it with your spouse/bikini waxer/doorman. In fact, stop reading it altogether. Forget you know it exists. Bitches.
And ANOTHER thing!
Never use the phrase, "I've heard a lot about you," when talking to someone, unless the phrase immediately following it is "all good, of course." Certainly don't use it twice.
That's just fucking shitty.
Pretend to have some couth.* Shit.
*Okay, yes, I did just write "have some couth." Pay attention to the underlying message. Dang.
Sid's 12 (minus 7) Step Guide to Happiness.
Step 1: Are you unhappy? Figure out why.
Step 2: Figured it out? Good. Now, figure out how much of it is your own damn fault. I'll wait. *whistling* Okay, yes, it's a lot. Calm down.
Step 3: Shotty. Whatever you've got on hand. Trust me, if you're doing this right, you should be pretty worked up over how much of it is your fault. But listen: Just the one shot, okay? No more. With more shots you cross into "additional problems" territory.
Step 4: This one is harder than it sounds. What isn't your fault, you have to let not be your fault. Even if you have been an outrageous, unconscionable, unmitigated asshole, the relative frequency of muhfuggin' assholish behavior of people in general means it's highly likely some of the bitches you are dealing with have been assholes, too. Own your shit. Let them keep theirs.
Step 5: Fix what you can. What you can't fix, let go. Preferably while you are several hundred miles away in a five-star hotel taking delivery of room service from an unusually intelligent, funny and attractive bellhop who just happens to really be an undercover CIA agent playboy- type, undercoverly defending a visiting dignitary. Er, or something. Whatever, work out your own fantasy for that bit.
An open letter to my ex-boyfriend.
I do not miss you at all.
I do, however, really miss your way with words.
And by "way with words," I mean--
What? Did you think I'd leave that up? Seriously, people, my mama reads this blog.
That is all.
A minivan leaves from a Manhattan garage travelling at 65 miles per hour.
A train leaves Penn station travelling at 80 miles per hour.
A bus with Korean lettering on the side leaves from the corner of 34th and Broadway traveling at 43 miles per hour, but jumps to 87 as soon as it hits Jersey.
An airplane leaves JFK travelling at 650 miles per hour.
Between these four vehicles, there are 147 empty seats.
DA HELL is my ass doing in a swivel chair on the UWS?
*SLAM*
Godamighty.
Not blogging sucked.
These are the things I would have blogged about if I could have, in a nutshell:
1. Forgiveness.
A South African film about a white former-policeman, Tertius Coetzee, who seeks out the family of a colored freedom fighter he helped torture and kill during apartheid.
The movie was quite good. The cast was strong, with very moving and subtle performances turned in by Zane Meas and Denise Newman, who played the parents of the murdered boy. The younger cast members, Quanita Adams and Christo Davids, as the slain boy's siblings, were also excellent. Adams was especially good, with a face made for indignation. Arnold Vosloo (probably best known as the Mummy in The Mummy) played Coetzee, and spent the better part of the film looking tortured.
After the screening, Christo Davids, one of the actors, was on hand to answer questions.
The poor boy.
The questions were just plain fucked up. I'd talk about them, but I'm too tired.
2. The Shoes finally arrived. I am so done buying Pumas. This is it. I'll never need another pair.
3. 9:48 minute mile. Woohoo! This may not seem very important to you, but in high school, when we all had to run that mile for national health standards, I clocked in at, like, 22 minutes. Okay, wait, that's an elliptical 9:48, not an actual running 9:48, so maybe I shouldn't get too excited.
4. I saw De-Lovely last night. It was wonderful! I never thought of myself as a Cole Porter fan until I realized I knew every song in this film and had favorite versions of most. None of those favorites include Sheryl Crow. I'm sorry, but that woman's voice sounds like nails on chalkboard to me, and I'm almost offended she got to be one of the guest singers. I think I may be a Diana Krall fan now, though. And whoever did "Love For Sale" was good, but she wasn't Billie, and as far as I'm concerned, Billie's version is the only version.
Despite Crow's crowing, I think I want this soundtrack.
5. Loaf might be back, from the road, some time soon. I may or may not be with him.
6. Something wicked this way comes, methinks. But I'm from Assachusetts, so I reserve the right to use that word as I see fit, positive or negative, and I don't feel the need to share which meaning I'm giving it right now. Mwahaha--okay, that amused only me.
Happy Thursday!
*walks away humming "the Sinatra version of "From This Moment On"*
* realize I sound like a broke-ass Sheryl Crow*
* keeps singing anyway*
My innanets is down...
So I might be out of the loop for a minute. Might. I could just set up at a Starbucks...but that's expensive. We'll see how much of a blogwhore I am, I guess.
I am making no judgement. I am merely an information conduit.
Found over at Baby Girl, linked on the right, so leave your comments over thurr, LOL!
Man, I HATE TV.
I was all set for Mansquito. I had soda, I had popcorn, and a two-hour block of time.
So which Time Warner Digital Cable channel isn't working, out of 1000? Why, the Sci Fi channel, of course.
CURSE YOU TIME WARNER DIGITAL CABLE!
(I'm making my mom tape it for me, though, so I will see it. Some day.)
Speaking of curses, since I missed Oldboy, and Mansquito wasn't coming on, I channel surfed and came across a re-airing of NBC's Revelations on Bravo.
Cool, I thought. I can watch this instead, and then mosey on down to the theater to see Forgiveness and have time to spare.
*Sipping, popcorn noshing, watching show, doobedoo*
"Oh my god! Is that fucking Fred Durst? Dammit! I can't watch this now! All my respect for this show is gone!"
*throws remote*
CURSE YOU FRED DURST!
I propose a moratorium on use of the word "Bling."
All in favor, post "aye." All against, sod off.
Why did I just see an HSBC--you know, the financial institution--ad featuring an Indian woman decked out in bridal gold that was referred to as bling? Why? Why in the hell can't we go back to "jewelry"? Even though half the population has trouble pronouncing the word (most common mispronunciation being something along the lines of "jury") it was pretty good.
Finger bling, wrist bling, bling bling bling! Argh! What about rings and bangles and herringbone chains?!? Even Will's use of the phrase "dookie chains" was a welcome turn of phrase!
Man, I think I understand what those grumpy anti-cussing teachers were grumping about, now.*
In other news, Mansquito is coming on tonight at 7 Eastern! This has totally changed my evening plans. I was going to go watch Oldboy, and then see Forgiveness, but now I'm pushing Oldboy back to Thursday afternoon. I have to see Forgiveness tonight, though.
Yes, this is my life. Back-to-back films, by myself, on a Saturday night. I am so cool.
*I am fully aware that we have a living, fluid language and, as such, we go through periods in which certain words are invented while others gain or lose popularity, and this is all part of the cycle. But I still hate "bling."
My last Papa post...
(this week)
...and it's not even mine.
On that first day when Benedict XVI was elected, I expressed unease, and after a comment by Shasta, I explained my unease a bit further, down in my comments, though not too thoroughly. And I never went back to flesh out my fears.
Today, I read the Feministe post on his election. Man, those Feministe commenters are clever. They hashed out the argument for me!
50 Words and Muzak
I'm biting off Will with the music/writing combo, so here are my 50 words:
She'd thought marrying a banker was smart. She couldn't have guessed he would quit two years later to "write." Now she worked 80 hour weeks to pay their bills, rushed home to find the children already asleep. No matter; they treated their Daddy like god, and mommy like a ghost.
FR10:
1. Booty, Erykah Badu
2. Cada Beijo, Bebel Gilberto
3. Use the Force, Jamiroquai
4. Concrete, Sean Paul
5. Beloved Wife, Natalie Merchant
6. This Year's Girl #2, Pizzicato 5
7. See/Believe, frente
8. Rapunzel, Dave Matthews Band
9. Love is Stronger Than Pride, Sade
10. X-Girlfriend, Bush
50 more words:
One more time. Just one. Once more and he would pack up his things, pile them into the Escort and drive off to some dive where he could drink away the pain, maybe hold a tallboy to the bruise to stop its darkening, find a new lover who wouldn't hit.
Okay, now 50 happy words:
Chocolate smudges his cheek, stickiness worked into three days worth of beard. Lone Cheerio has nestled in the crook and bend of one of her springy curls since breakfast, seven hours gone. But her bright eyes and his dimples smile back at them from two identical, mischievous, perfect little faces.
I think it's a neat idea. In fact, I think it could be an incredible writing exercise. I shall try this and maybe not report back, but if you, too, are interested, perhaps we can 50-word together....
In other news, today my Ma and little brother came to visit me for the day and we wandered around the city eating and shoe shopping (my poor brother, he had to take a nap [he's 12]). As it happens, I have turned my mother on to the Pumas as well, and this place called, er, Shoe Mania, I think, down in Union Square, had funky colored Speed Cats on clearance for $30. Alas, there was not a single pair in any color combo in my size. For the best, I'm sure. My mom, however, made off with a pair of yellow ones with a silver stripe. That's right, my mama wears yellow Pumas! She's cool like that.
So I got some of these (but all black and not fur-lined) instead, at Tip Top Shoes on 72nd. They are comfy, like walking on really firm, arch-supporting, not-melty marshmallows. And trust me, they look much more grown up in all-black than they do in blue and yellow. The company website has some really funky, cute/comfy summer sandals. A little pricey, but worthwhile, methinks.
While we were wandering around downtown, though, we were surprised to see a taxi speeding down the street, grill-mounted lights flashing and sirens wailing. It was a po-po cab! Genius! My god, in this city, a cop in an unmarked cab could go absolutely anywhere and seem totally inconspicuous! Okay, except Harlem. I have never seen a cab on 125th Street that I didnt take there my damn self. Am I imagining this? Weird.
As a mini-school bus drove swiftly by, my mom almost tricked me into believing that was a secret 5-0, too. Verrrrrrry funny, Ma, verrrrrrrrry funny. Then I realized it actually was very funny. Nothing in the world could be more humiliating than being busted by a short bus.
I love my family.
El Papa Watch continues...
An interesting piece in the NYT about how Ratz--er, Benedict XVI--might influence social and political positions of Catholics in the U.S.
One of the points made which I found especially interesting: Though the church teachings oppose the war in Iraq and the death penalty, and supports "social justice for the poor," (politically) conservative Catholics are not held to those teachings; (politically) liberal Catholics, on the other hand, are judged for supporting freedom of choice, etc. Not surprising; this is typical conservative behavior. The problem is libs are often too polite to call them on their hypocrisy, while conservatives never shy away from creating an uproar over everything (Terry Schiavo, anyone? While a black child in Texas was ignored and allowed to die over the objections of his mother, under the Texas futile care law signed in by no other than Gee Dub himself. *runs off to take medicine for my blood pressure*).
El Papa on some of the issues that the church will face going forward.
A kinder, gentler Holy See than cardinal?
Registration may be required.
It has only been TWO DAYS !
How about we let the whole thing sink in for a minute, huh? Maybe, say, let the man be Pope for a few months, maybe a year? Or release it after his first 100 days, just to see how he's doing. No? You want it out within two weeks of his election? Oh, okaythen. I'm expecting some really in-depth discussion of his Nazi youth, no gloss-overs. And I'd like to hear exactly what direction he plans to take the church in. Oh, yeah, defender of the faith, whatever, but what exactly will that mean for the church from now on? Because, frankly, I could give a flying fuck less about his long walks and musicianship, okay? Get on it, Tobin.
Criminy. What is wrong with people? Why must everything in the whole world be a marketing opportunity?
This reminds me of the disillusionment I suffered in J school when I learned all the papers, wires and news channels prepared obits for older celebrities long before they died, just to have it ready when the geezer finally kicked the bucket.
Just wrong, man. Just wrong.
Dear Diary,
Today I had lunch at Friend House (99 3rd Ave, between 12th and 13th Streets, L to 3rd Ave.), on the LES (not the East Village, as I sleepily proclaimed last night), with the lovely and talented Miss James, who will soon be leaving our fair city to take up a post at the prestigious Baltimore paper. She's such a cool gal, I hope she digs her new, er, digs. We talked about her plans for the move, work, and what have you, and generally enjoyed the afternoon.
Friend House was her suggestion, and a wonderful suggestion it was--really good pan-Asian on the relatively cheap. I had the pad thai and sushi combo; she had tempura roll and fried rice. Her meal was pretty easy to remember, because, for the second time, the waiters mixed up our doggie bags and I took off with her leftovers. Again. Sorry, M!
I also spent a full hour or more wandering outside on this beautiful, 75+ degree day, kicking off my annual struggle against pasty winter skin. Already, my stems show signs of toasting, having gone from a sickly wheat to a slightly less sickly wheat. Re-melanization is imminent. And everyone knows a tan is slimming, haha!
Well, that's all for now, diary. I think I'll watch some more of the quality programming* on A&E, and then tuck in for the night!
*Robbie Knievel's Wild Ride is on! Aside from the fact that one of the stunt team members, Roman, who confessed to puking all day, managed to uncover a little-researched area of medicine when he noted that, while you could have bad food and get food poisoning, really, was there such a thing as bad booze? a couple of bleached-blond, slightly drunken gals, when forced to write down that they were hot, came up with "Hotie." Then went back to drunkeration. Class. This station could only be improved** by Springer in syndication!
**Kidding. I'm not sure we should allow A&E at all if this is how they intend to carry on. When your programming becomes bikers and bail bondsmen in addtion to homicides and rapes, I think you are shooting for a rather questionable demographic. Can we not give the members of this demographic additional ideas?
How in the hell...
...did Dog the Bounty Hunter get on air, and last into a second season, no less?
Just, what? This show is cracked.
And you know what the worst part is?
Nevermind, nevermind.
I'm kinda scared.
But their business website is really cheery!
Or should I say, "Curse you, identity thieves!"
I shopped at a few of the DSWs on that list. Dammit.
Salad days, tossed.
Meh. I was talking with TDMM the other day about dieting and we were lamenting the fact that it just doesn't take as much energy (and thus, food) to keep our bodies running as we seem to believe.
In fact, it takes surprisingly little. Which would explain why the last time I was able to lose any significant amount of blub was the time I was teaching, didn't get paid for five weeks, and was so poor I survived on two cups of coffee, a salad (free teacher's lunch in the cafeteria), and a single bleeding cup o' soup a day.
This week, I managed to hit the gym five days out of seven and gained two pounds. Astonishing.
So this was dinner. Lettuce, sliced strawberries, a little goat cheese and Annie's Naturals Papaya Poppyseed dressing. It's a goddamned good thing I actually like my greens.
Otherwise, right now I'd be really fucking pissed.
Come to think of it, right now I actually am really fucking pissed. Two pounds. Meh.
Dutch cheese from Margaret and K!
At the end of a very bad week I got this really incredibly, wonderfully, fantastically nice gift from
Margaret and her adorable little one K!
Thanks, ladies! You made my week!
It's a really awesome Dutch cheese and mustard, with little porcelain bowl and clogs! I especially enjoyed the bag. I took a pretty bad pic, but the bag, which says Cloggy, has a picture of a boy sailing along in a clog. That is the coolest.
I'm going to go grub on the yummy cheese and mustard right now!
I also hereby declare the Dutch will henceforth be called the Hollandish. Similarly, though pretty much irrelevantly, the good people of Dublin will be called Dublish, not Dubliners.
If my life were a movie...
it would be called "The Opposite of Sexy."
Also, I think I have pureed cauliflower in my hair.
bungle and flub
My first college reunion is coming up.
I'm not going.
But this reunion has, as reunions often do, made me consider what I've done with my life so far, good and bad.
I've lost touch with some very interesting people for reasons that made total sense at the time, but seem completely inane now.
I've given up on things that would have proven fruitful with a little more perseverance. And as a result I am now sticking out some things I should have run screaming from ages ago just to prove to myself I can stick to things.
And this morning, I left my newly-acquired and much needed iced coffee atop a very mobile something that proceeded to mobilize. My coffee is now staining the corner of 68th and Columbus.
Dammit.
In my next incarnation I think I'll do something a bit more relaxing and less emotionally taxing.
Like running an opium and hash operation out of Jalalabad.
On weekends, I could run guns and samples of deadly contagions in old coffee tins up to Mazar-e-Sharif.
I'd sleep easier.
I just watched Harold and Kumar...
I fuckin' love that movie.
Cheetah rides?
Doogie and strippers?
John Cho and Kal Penn?
Sweet.
In two years, I am so all over Amsterdam. You know, for culture.
In other news, I am the shittiest NYC guide ever. How about I forgot to turn my ringer back on after my viewing of Namaak Halal last night, and missed Carlos' call? Thank god the man has other, more connected NYC amigos.
Carlos, I am really sorry. I owe you ten!
Random Weekend Update
FR10:
1.Waterfall, Stone Roses
2. I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For, U2
3. Take a Chance on Me, Abba
4. Just Like Heaven, The Cure
5. Parachutes, Coldplay
6.Exit Music (for a film) Radiohead
7. Swim, Bush
8. Soul Surfing, Fatboy Slim
9. Wake Up, Alanis Morrisette
10. Get to Know Ya, Maxwell
Dang. For a second, there, I thought it would be the American-free shuffle.
Aside: Ruby Foo's spicy tuna rolls are like crack. Don't start, because once you do, you will develop a nasty, regular habit and find yourself on a first-name basis with all of their delivery guys. If anyone can think of a cure, let me know, because I'm having a hard time hitting bottom on this one.
Stuff:
I've been meaning to do more stuff reviews for a while.
1. Decorative arts by Miss Jazz. Have you seen the stuff on her website? It's adorable! Decs for the diva inside. Oh no, you can't see Prince's influence at all! LOL.
2. Target's houseware lines by Mizrahi and, well, Target. I love Target. And I love those Mizrahi housewares with the poppies, especially the duvet set. If I hadn't bought so goddamn many duvet sets at Ikea I might have been able to rationalize getting this one. But I have 4 duvet covers and one damn down blanket, so I don't need any more. *pout*
3. I've been wondering lately whether I am grown enough to invest in some major artwork. I don't think I am just yet, but I've had my eye on some pieces by Boston-based artist Yuko Adachi for when I finally really settle in somewhere. A few of her oil-on-canvas paintings and works on paper make me feel as very up though I've been on a champagne-and-coke bender. I mean, er, really, um, cheerfully effervescent. Which is how I imagine someone on a champagne-and-coke bender would feel. I've never-ohforgetit.
4. That Lush stuff was incredible. I am a convert for life when it comes to their massage bars, which are sticky as hell but make amazing moisturizers that smell great and keep your skin baby-soft. I'm going to stock up come next winter. I feel really stoopid for not checking out their store locations before I put in their mail order, though. Turns our there's a Lush shop, oh, THREE BLOCKS from my apartment. (I'm not even exaggerating. I just never walk on that side of the street, so I didn't notice it. I'm dense like that.) So I paid about $15 in shipping and waited a week for my stuff for no good reason. Dammit.
Eh, I can't think of anything else. Oh wait, have you checked out the new links on my blogroll? Good stuff.
Happy Friday.
And for my next trick, I'll be pulling a vacation out of my...
...pocket of wonder.
So.
Who just booked her next Chicago trip, including round-trip airfare and three nights accomodation at the four-star W Chicago City Center (during the Chicago Blues Festival, when all the travel websites were offering similar packages at $1000+) for under $700?
Mwahahahahahahahahaha!
OhgodletJunecomequickly.
IT'S MARY'S BIRTHDAY!
So go on over and wish her a happy one!
Love ya, Mar!
This made me roll my eyes a little bit.
I won't say I don't believe we swear too much as a society; I'm a major offender--hell, I cuss with relish--and I still think we do. But I definitely don't believe it's plain language laziness as some of the teachers claim. And it doesn't mean the end of use of great swaths of the dictionary, for fuck's sake.
The Irish, for instance, say shit that makes me blush, but they've also managed to produce some of the greatest poets, novelists and playwrights the world has known; it's a very literary culture. Profanity and a large vocabulary can coexist (America needs to stop thinking that because we don't/can't do it, it isn't possible). You can be as comfortable with the word "cunt" as "colloquial."
Frankly, I believe the people who would say "I'm fucking pissed off" all the time to indicate anger are just unimaginative. Yes, there is a range of anger between irritated and incensed, between upset and livid, but the people who are only going to say "pissed off" just aren't going to employ other phrases, anyway. Plenty of us are more than happy to say a "bitch has got me livid as a muhfuggah," you know?
Which is not to say I think kids should be allowed to cuss like little heathen sonsobitches. I didn't start swearing in earnest until college, and that did me fine. Frankly, looking back on it, pre-college, I didn't have as much bullshit to cuss about. That may have had something to do with my late bloomage. Oh wait, it could also have been the fact that my mama (who could make the Irish blush, when she's behind the wheel of her minivan-of-rage) would have knocked some sense into my ass if I came home talking like I didn't have the good goddamned sense enough to know when not to talk like that.
And that's the real problem. It's not the pervasive use of this language; it's the lack of guidance on when and how the language should be used.
Effective immediately, I am running a cussing seminar. For only $1750 per student per semester, I will provide cussing guidance and vocabulary expansion to interested parties. Since I'll actually be teaching vocab and test prep in addition to creative uses of profanity(I'm totally qualified to do this; I've taught SAT prep, bitches!), I'll undoubtedly be able to set myself up as a No Child Left Behind tutor and get my money from the government, so the course would come at no real cost to the student!
Genius.
NYC bloggers...
Chicago blogger Carlos is rolling into town this weekend, arriving Friday night. He and Shasta were amazing hosts when I hit Chicago last month, and I'd like to return the favor! Anybody else up for rolling out the NYC blogger welcome wagon? I'll be working Saturday and Sunday night, but maybe drinks on Friday?
Let me know!
Sometimes, I read Gawker.
Today, I read Gawker.
I saw this, inspired by this. And it made me, I dunno, mad or something.
I'm anti- fey New York hipster boys anyway, but somehow, I'm quadruply so after thinking about the way rock boys used to be.
I'm not even sure why I dislike fey hipster boys. I quite like cross-dressers.
Go figure.
But seriously, dude has a dermatologist? That he thinks it is okay to mention, by name, in an interview? I can't remember my gynecologist's name half the time. Carps. And I think what makes me angriest is his fancy Kiehls hair grooming system. Dude. You have 2 inches of poorly-cut hair. I'm all for guys with longprettyflowing locks understanding the importance of conditioning and hair maintenance, because too often, they do not. But this guy? Shit, I'm a black woman and if I ever go that short, You can bet your ass it'll be some drugstore shit for me.
This looks kinda like a parody, anyway. I hope it is.
RAWK-a-bye-baby...
All this crush talk has me thinking about my misspent youth. I was, quite frankly, a metalhead.
Er, maybe metalhead-lite. Not so much metal as lots of hardcore rock.
Blah blah blah, so I've been googling some old loves and I found this picture:
My god, how cute is that?!?! Aside from the fact that Slash's baby looks eerily like my little brother at that age, I am puddle-ified by his little baby mohawk. I can't wait to have children and give them mohawks. Or afros. But those are the only options they're getting until they're old enough to go off to school and peer-mockery and humiliation become a factor.
I would have been such a good rockstar wife. Except for that whole, I'm-not-an-ex-bikini-model-and-I-would-kill-the-shit-out-of-some-groupies thing.
This post couldn't make less sense if you threw it into a sack with a possum, a pie and some herb, set it on fire and then beat it with a stick.
I haven't had a useful or interesting thing to say lately. Which doesn't stop me from saying plenty, anyway.
Continuing along those lines, I'm jacking X's/Will's odd crush meme, and talking shit about some other irrelevant things. But first things first.
Look at this little drinky-drink shaker I got at Target for a dollar! Cute, nah?
Her little thought bubble says "Shake it up!"
Now, on to the crushes.
As I have exposed plenty of crushes I'm sure people have thought were friggin' bizarre, yet for which I am totally unashamed and unrepentant (Eddie Izzard, Eddie Izzard, and Eddie Izzard, but screw off, I can't think of anyone else who can make the Pope, transvestites and monkeys funny as hell all in the same set. Sometimes, in French. Bad french, but still French.), I figured I'd make this about some totally reasonable crushes. Oh forget it. I've just realized all of my crushes are bizarre.
1. Salman Rushdie
I think Midnight's Children might have been the first book--or really creative work in general--I ever encountered that I found to be so moving and wonderful and exciting and important that I not only understood the appeal of mortgaging your soul for talent; I also understood how one could become a groupie. Nevermind the fact that the man looks like a hoary little satyr. I read that book and wanted to marry him. I still would. I love him.
2. Jeff Ament, Pearl Jam
Sometimes, when I'm working out, just a-bouncin' away on the damned elliptical machine at top speed, I close my eyes and shut out every sensation save the feel and sound of his bassline and for the duration of the song, I'm nothing but that bass.
3. Cliff Curtis
Even as "Uncle-fucking-Bully!" in Once Were Warriors, I was oddly drawn to him. Which is saying a lot since, in that film, Uncle Bully is a sick drunken child rapist. Ick. But Cliff Curtis is not! He's crookedly hot!
4. Slash.
Since I was 12. Then, now and forever. Deal.
5. Alan Rickman and John Malkovich.
These two seem to hold the same appeal for me--the appeal of the older, baselessly condescending, slightly effete, intellectual sneery old man. An appeal which I cannot explain, but which I believe may be the key to many deep, dark and painful secrets, secrets so painful and deep I have locked them away in the darkest corners of mind, secrets which can only be unlocked after several years of intensive therapy. But I can't afford that. So It'll just have to be a fucking mystery.
6.5. Shia LeBoeuf.
I feel so dirty. But it is a totally skeeveless asexual crush.
7. Rick James...I mean, Dave Chappelle.
Bitch!
8. Conan O'Brien and John Stewart.
Funny haha and funny-brilliant.
9. Rory Breaker.
Not the actor who played Rory Breaker. Rory Breaker the character. "If the milk turns out to be sour, I ain't the kinda pussy to drink it," Rory Breaker.
10. Caryl Phillips.
He is brilliant. Impeccable. Multi-talented. And the man can dress. I went to a reading he had at Harvard a few years back. I got him to sign my copy of A New World Order, but it took a glass of chardonnay to even get me that far. I think I managed some really stupid, stupid comment. I'm still smacking my head over that one. What I'd meant to say was, "Please, Mr. Phillips, sir, when I start my Creative Writing MFA at Columbia *snort, as if*, will you be my advisor? No? Well, will you advise THE PARTY IN MY PANTS?!" Stupid, yes, but trust me, heaps sharper than what I actually said.
*Aside: You know, I just looked over his touring schedule and noticed he was at Yale last week. What. The. Fuck? Why does everyone hit Yale after I've left? Know who else has been all up in the boola-boolaid since I left in '00? Rushdie. Hillary Clinton. And on and on. It ain't right.*
It is so past my bedtime.
MORE MOVIES!!
I forgot about one of the previews that had me all giddy. I can't wait to see Layer Cake! The trailer for that was bomb-ass, as the younguns are wont to say. It made me all squirmy in my seat. I love slick-Brit action flicks. Also, rumor has it that Layer Cake star Daniel Craig is the new James Bond. I don't see it, but whatever, I don't watch Bond movies, despite my recent assertion of love for Brit action flicks. I meant stuff like Lock, Stock and the original Italian Job and Trainspotting and shiz.
And Unleashed! I forgot about that one, too. Yay, Jet Li movies! But only regular actions that aren't kung fu epics, or worse, as one of the guys who posted on the message board for this one noted, "rap fu."
And Dear Frankie looked really sweet, though a bit unlikely. What mother these days would go through that much trouble to shelter her child from the knowledge that he is fatherless, for whatever reason? Certainly not to lie about having run away from the man. What if psychodad turns up and goes apeshit? The kid would never know why. Hm. Still, it looks sweet.
Good lord, I can't believe how many trailers I'd forgotten. And if I'm going to forget this much, I'd rather it not come back to me at all, than have it come dribbling out in these little trickles, because the little trickles make me want to rush out and have my noggin scanned for mad cow or something.
Is it wrong that sometimes I still sing Milli Vanilli songs? And do the little dance?
*wanders away humming "All or Nothing"*
Oh man, somehow that became Terrence Trent D'Arby. I gots to stop....
Why?
Apparently, the Plug-in with whirligig fan built in just wasn't good enough.
Remember when people used freshening candles and sprays, or, even better, those Magic Mushroom things? Well, screw them. Those were for serfs. This is high class, bitches.
This might be why America is hated. Not saying it is the reason. But it could be one reason.
I feel the need to make another Doctors Without Borders donation after seeing this.
MOVIES!!
That was the best title I could think up.
Anyway, about two-and-a-half years ago, when I was living in the Boston area, I used to go to this little indie video rental place in Brookline that had really great movies. I don't remember the name offhand, but it was the video store I would go to for great foreign films.
Which was how I got to see Gurinder Chadha's Bend it Like Beckham and Steven Chow's Shaolin Soccer months before either film did well enough on its home turf and elsewhere to generate enough buzz for US theater release.
I loved both movies tremendously. And so did the rest of the country, apparently, because both Chadha and Chow have managed to get their follow-up films on US screens. (Thank god. I haven't found any NYC equivalent to that video store, yet, and Netflix is good, but it ain't that good. I should also point out that both of them had plenty of other directing credits under their belts before they hit big stateside, like Chadha's Bhaji On the Beach and What's Cooking and Chow's, er, you probably haven't seen any of his other films unless you're big into Cantonese kung fu comedies.) So tonight I hauled my ass to two different theaters a whopping 20 blocks apart to see Chadha's Bride and Prejudice and Chow's Kung Fu Hustle.
I saw KFH first. I'd give you a blow-by-blow, but I was frequently distracted by the guy sitting next to me who snored and mumbled throughout the film, so I think I may have missed some good bits rolling my eyes and thinking "SHUTTHEFUCKUP!" to myself. (That's not a reflection on the movie, though. He was awake.) I liked Shaolin better, but KFH was definitely very cool. There were lots of the same elements (er, not least of which was the writer-director-star Steven Chow)--bullies, mystical kung-fu six-packs of whup-ass, a weirdo love-interest, comedy, and a fat guy. It was fun. You should go.
Then I checked out Bride and Prejudice, which has gotten some pretty bad reviews here. Eh. Fuck the critics. I liked it. Aside from the preternatural pretty that is Ash (look out, Angelina Jolie. You got some competition for that prettiest lady spot, and she's already been named Miss World.), it featured the line: "Chill, Papa, I have to fix my dupatta." Rock. Naveen Andrews was fun, as ever, the choreography was super-high energy, and Anupam Kher was in it, once again being one of my favorite celluloid dads (he was Mr. Bhamra in Beckham and Mr. Malhotra in my favorite romantic comedy, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai). Good times, man, good times.
I don't think Martin Henderson as Darcy was great, and there really wasn't any chemistry between him and Ash. At all. None. But I still liked the movie.
Other highlights of my ridiculous film-hopping: Previews.
I can't wait to see Korean revenge flick OldBoy and the new Hitchhiker's Guide, which is sure to beat the BBC version, if only for the presence of Mos Def as Ford Prefect and the marked improvement in special effects budget.
I still cannot for the life of me figure out what the holy hell Domino is about. Every time I see the preview I think, "Oh look, there's that scrunch-faced Knightley girl with short hair again. What the hell is she babbling on about? Someone should tell her smoking doesn't make her look cool. It only makes Helena Bonham Carter look cool. Oh look, now she's doing an impression of Hilary Swank in The Next Karate Kid!" Although I must say, I think she looks the best she ever has with this haircut, because she looks neatly punk. I'm sure I'll end up seeing this.
Lows: Remembering the trailer I saw for Skeleton Key before Sin City. Who thought a voodoo flick featuring golden (haired) girl Kate Hudson and golden (years) girl Gena Rowlands was a good idea? Also, seeing the advertisements for Pelosi Medical Center, a cosmetic gynecology place that--what's that? What's cosmetic gynecology? I was getting to it! They, er, "enhance intimacy" with lasers, according to the ad. I understand movie theaters have to make money. (Actually, I don't, considering they charge $11 for a ticket these days, but anyway.) I just think there should be guidelines as to what is an acceptable pre-film advertisement. Coke, Fandango.com, shut-off-your-cell-reminders, yes. Cars and funny SUV safety ads, maybe. Lasers to the chooch? No. Nuh-uh. Not cool.
Tomorrow, Amitabh Bachchan. Or maybe not. I might be all filumed out.
Oh Blogger. And some other stuff.
Yesterday, I wrote about what was perhaps my most mortifying moment ever.
Fortunately, Blogger went all wonky right after I hit "Publish" and hasn't righted itself until just now, when I am capable of thinking clearly and realizing writing about that would have been dumb.
If only Blogger could make the incident disappear along with the post.
Oh well.
It's over now.
This has been a shitty week. I'll leave it at that.
Now, back to ladies in film.
The other night I sat down to watch City of God and, like most everyone else who's seen it, I loved it. I loved the cast, the story, the plot, the look and feel of the film. And when it was over, I began to compare it to other films that I've loved as much. One of the films that came immediately to mind was Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels.
Since I'd been mulling over women and film and misogyny lately(thanks to Keidra, Shasta and Lauren), I'd also noticed the distinct absence of women in both films. In the case of Lock, Stock, a romance had been written in for the lead but was cut out in the final draft, so there were almost no women in the film (stripper, card dealer, and Gloria.) In City of God, there were few women, but all served only to advance the plot, bridges to the "important" bits of the film--one indirectly leads to Bene's death, another sets off the favela turf war, etc.
Neither movie suffered for their absence. Neither lacked relationship or character development, or emotion.
I tried to think of films with female leads that were about women and their relationships with each other, films similar in structure or composition to COG or LS and I just couldn't. At all. Every film either hinged upon family/lack thereof, or love/lack thereof. Even in those cases where it wasn't the central plot point, it certainly seemed to play a greater role in the film than it would had the sex of the leads been reversed.
You guys came up with a few I hadn't considered--Contact, Miss Congeniality 2, Gorillas in the Mist, so thanks for that, because for a minute there, I was worried. But a lot of those others mentioned--even, perhaps especially, those that are action-based and about kick-ass characters--still have serious romance elements (either in the backstory, as in Crouching Tiger, or as a critical conflict in the vein of the woman who has to decide to either back down from her kick-ass nature for love/family [I'm thinking here of the character's boxer boyfriend/love interest in Girlfight] or trust old flames [not to break their hearts, again, and run off with treasure, as in Tomb Raider]).
Do screenwriters believe people don't want to watch a film featuring women that isn't about love or family? Do people actually not want to see such films? Or are we just getting lazy films?
Perhaps I need to step back from the issue and think about the other side of the coin: do we get films about men that don't feature either skirt-chasing or shooting?
I dunno. I'll think more about this later.
Hmm, aside from the fact that I gots no love for Meg Ryan, kinda true.
Found it
here.
Question
It may be that I'm just tired, as it is the ass-crack of dawn and I haven't gone to bed yet, but I can't seem to think of any lady-based (all-female leads) film for which the plot does not hinge upon romance, motherhood/family, or the struggle to balance career with romance or motherhood/family.
Please suggest some. Remember, female leads, but not about romance or family.
Thanks.
Now that I'm restedish, I feel as though someone has already asked this question. Keidra, did you already ask this?
You know what I hate?
I hate being stressed out over some bullshit.
*SLAM*
Thanks to X for popularizing *SLAM* Where would we all be without her?
Whispers, gasps, shouts, sighs.
See, I could have used a title like "Randomosity" or "Non Sequitur" to indicate that this'll be another one of those irritatingly disjointed posts, but instead, I just came up with a title that was itself random and unrelated to anything I will post! Ha! Tricksy little hobbitses (me).
1. Is it wrong that I have continued to bid on something I don't even want that much on E-Bay just to piss off (and drive the price up for) the counter-bidder, because I hate her member name? It's turning out to be a kind of stupid game of chicken, at this point. I mean, I kinda want the stuff, or else I would never have bid in the first place, but, you know, she outbid me with her snarky, in-your-face screen name (it's funny, her screen name is like an inverted, evil, aggressive version of mine). What if she just bid becuase she thought my screen name was a snarky-evil-inversion of hers?!?! Okay, I'll stop. In case you were wondering, the item in question? Three guesses.
2. So I hit Puma.com the other day, and started up a fantasy list of shoes that I was going to post here. Then, I started looking around for the shoes I wanted on other sites, like Amazon.com, and I got really excited because I thought I'd found a bunch of Pumas I wanted for about $30 off. I started filling up my virtual shopping cart with discount kicks, woo-wee! But they were only offered in certain colors I wasn't crazy about. Then it occurred to me that buying the discount pumas was like the shoe equivalent of eating fat-free food: You end up going overboard because what you're getting leaves you unsatisfied. Why get these three pairs of shoes, totalling $120, when I could get The Pair I really want for $75 and be done?
After that moment of blinding clarity and enlightenment, I was able to climb down from the Puma-binge ledge and think clearly about what I want, and how badly I want them. Which led to a stroke of genius that eventually ended with me finding them elsewhere for the right price. One pair. In my size, in the exact color combo I'm seeking. Yes!
3.The Walter Reade over at Lincoln Center is hosting some seriously cool film fests this month. There are a bunch of Swedish films there until the end of this week. Unfortunately, I've already missed all the ones I wanted to see, except for Kops and Lilya 4 Ever, which I plan to see on Thursday. Friday night (April 8) the Amitabh Banchchan fest begins. I'll be up in that theater all weekend. What? He's the biggest film star in the world!
But the one that's got me really geeked is the 12th New York African Film Festival, running April 20-28th. I have to check out my work schedule, but I'm hoping to see about 5 of the films they're showing. I wish I could see them all! The line-up is outstanding. If anybody's interested, drop me a line.
4. I saw Sin City last night.
Hmmmmm.
It was a treat for the eyes, I must say. It totally lived up to that hype. A comic book brought to life.
However.
It was deeply fuckedup. I tend to giggle at certain kinds of gratuitous violence, but this was a lot even for me to take.
And, as Shasta mentioned, it was hard to watch every woman in the film victimized in one way or another, often by their "rescuers," even. So they had big guns. Everybody in that friggin' movie had big guns. Okay, everybody in the friggin' movie also got handed ass-on-platter, but still. Yeesh. >;}
Rosario was mighty hot though. Mercy. Just, damn. 'Cause I'm a sucker for the mo(ck)hawks. And super-high strappy heels. And mild punkyslutiness. On boys and girls! She had 'em all! Holy, holy!
And godamighty, who knew Carla Gugino was stacked like that?! Okay, maybe the mens. They knew. But I never looked at her that way in Spy Kids and shit.
Clive Owen is one foxy muhfuggah. I wish they'd tarted him up in black shadow, heels and a tho--Wait. Did I say that out loud? I meant, er, wifebeater and leather pants, er, orsomething. Haha. Ha.
Ahem.
Elijah Wood is probably so giddy right now. He will finally be able to segue from playing the baby-faced innocent to playing the crazymuthafuckinpsychobitch I always knew he could be. Seriously, people. That sweet kid face is only going to last so long. Give him ten years and he'll look just like this guy, except without the funny. I'm thinking crazymuthafuckinpsychobitch is EW's new schtick.
I might have to see that movie again, though. Just, you know, for, um, clarity?
I'm sleepy now. Goodnight.
P.S. I just watched the ass-end of Hackers. Aside from being generally recoculous in execution, the plot in part rests on the premise that too-much-the-pretty Angelina Jolie wouldn't go out with so-much-the pretty Jonny Lee Miller. At the end, he says some bullshit line about how he couldn't have gotten a date without the bet they made.
Er. Jonny Lee Miller. Couldn't get a date.
BWAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Even if he didn't have this face and body, have you seen his tongue? If you haven't, go watch Trainspotting again. Go ahead. I'll wait.
*whistling, looking around, making sandwich, burp*
Seen it?
Yeah, it's like that. No lonely nights for this guy unless he wants it that way. Couldn't get a date. Snort.
I almost wish he and AJ'd had a kid together before they split up, because I would have liked to see what would happen when that much pretty gets together. Does it cancel out in the next generation? Increase exponentially? What?
I have to find some more JLM images, you don't look as convinced as you should about his pret-
OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMFG!
My new desktop wallpaper.
*hyperventilates*
*dead*
Yeah, I know I came down on fake-o dancefloor lesbians for kissing for the sake of onlookers and shit, but fuck it. These two can make out for my amusement any time. I'm a hypocritical cow that way.
Bitch-in-Kitch Six: Catfish!
Say that ten times fast.
So, this week, comfort food: fried catfish.
I love catfish, because it's cheap, versatile, and de-rishus. Usually, I just salt it and pan-cook it with garlic and olive oil. Today, though, I battered and fried it, with a tiny, tiny twist.
Okay, ready?
large catfish fillets
1 egg (per 4 fillets)
1/2 c. milk (per 4 fillets)
1 1/2 c. flour or corn meal, your choice
1 tbsp. hot curry powder (per 4 yadda yadda)
1 large clove garlic, minced
salt, pepper to taste
frying oil of your choice
In one large, shallow bowl, beat egg and milk together. In a separate large bowl, add and mix all other ingredients with a fork. Dip fillets in egg/milk mixture, coating evenly, and then into flour/meal mixture, coating evenly. Fry it up. I ate mine topped with super-spicytart lemon pickle. Yurm.
What's that? Where's Loaf? Oh, he's, uh, taking a little break.
*Sid looks blankly off into the distance, remembering...*
Loaf: What's cookin' this week, bitch?
Sid: Call me bitch one more time and it's you. Bitch.
Loaf: A'ight, I was only playin'. Bitch.
Sid: You know wha-
Loaf: Ha, okay, Sid. What's cookin' this week, Sid? Some more indigestible veggible bullsh-
*Sid reaches for bread knife*
Loaf: *cough* Some more incredible veggible goodshit? *cough*
Sid: Mm-hmm. If you'd let me tell you, damn. I was thinking about making fried catfish-
Loaf: Halleluja! Can I get a amen, muhfuggahs?! Praise the Lawd!
*waves hands, stomps, dances around kitchen counter*
Sid: -and sweet potatoes-
Loaf: Praise him! *begins to faint dramatically*
Sid: -but I thought it would be neat if I put funky spices, like curry powder in the fish batter, and then made maybe the sweet potatoes into spiced fries, as a side. *Excited, far-away look*
*Loaf stumbles mid-faint, rights himself, looks incredulous. Then dangerously tranquil*
Loaf: Come here a minute.
Sid: I'm right here.
Loaf: No, closer.
*Sid moves closer*
Loaf: Closer.
*Sid moves closer*
Loaf: Lean down, lemme whisper something in your ear.
*Sid, looking doubtful* Why?
Loaf: Just do it. I'm not gonna try to cut you again. Promise.
*Sid, looking really doubtful, leans closer, but still out of striking range*
*Loaf leans forward calmly, draws a breath* BITCH, WHAT DA HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?! WHY THE HELL YOU GOT TO GO MESSIN' WITH PERFECTLY GOOD SHIT?! CAN'T YOU JUST MAKE SOME NORMAL SHIT JUST ONCE?!?! GOT-DAYUM!
*Sid stumbles back, grabbing ears* You just busted my eardrum, you little-
Loaf: If you make that messed-up fish, I'm walking! It's always about you, what you can change, what you want to put in! Just once, make something for me! Don't you put that shit in there!
*Sid waves measuring spoon of curry powder threateningly over bowl of flour, salt and pepper* I'm doing it, and you can't stop me. Shit, you need to be thankful I don't eat store-brand white bread, you little morally bankrupt waste of calories! If I did, you'da been ate by now!
*Loaf looks stunned, then starts tearing up* That hurt, bitch. You was my heart. How you gonna talk to me like that? That's it, I'm out.
Sid: Fine! Go! Take your Family Dollar cooking shit, too! Got-damn dollar-store oven mitts didn't protect me from shit, no way! I don't need you, you crazy confectioners sugar-snorting muthaf-
*SLAM*
*Loaf is gone, and Sid sits on the kitchen floor, alone, looking bewildered. Sid weeps*
*Fade out*
Whinge.
Welcome to my whingefest. I try to limit this kind of pointless self-flagellation to my journals, but tonight, I just felt like sharing.
Fuck.
I've been thinking a lot lately about how my life is not what I want it to be. What it needs to be.
My life is a shambles. (Ish. Shamblesish. I'm not breaking up marriages, or cussing out old ladies, or kicking puppies, or fucking other people up or anything. Just me. Even in my up-fucking, I'm pretty self-centered.)
I'm 27. Instead of spending my days "in the field," conducting doctoral research on the Sikh diaspora or something (like I thought I would be doing at this point waaaaaay back when I was 21), or researching in-depth articles on education and minority students and supplementing my income with trend-monkey magazine front-of-book freelance whoring (like I swore I'd be doing when I finished J-school at 25), or at the very least finishing my terrible and generally intellectually masturbatory first novel, I'm doing...something else.
This year I'll earn about ten times what I earned at 24. I can actually pay my bills. And afford to do fun things with my free time. And yet I'm more stressed out now than I was then, because who has time to have fun when you're working enough to have money and then some, really? I'm used to a lot of fun. It may seem like I'm having lots of fun in my blog-life, but hell, do you know how much time I spend on this goddamned blog? And how much time I spend working or on-call? So no, not so much fun as I had when I was po' and hanging out with similarly un- or under-employed college friends. Oh, and hello, friends?!? All so far away! Why the hell am I in New York?!? Booo, isolating, high-rise, box-people city! I really would rather live in a wooden house where making more friends would be eeeeeeeeezaaaaaaay.*
I don't get nearly enough sleep, even though I usually work afternoons and evenings, so I don't have to get up early in the morning. But I blog and then go to bed late and then make myself get up a few hours later to scurry to the gym an hour before work. Then I rush through my workout and rush back to shower and work and I'm already exhausted halfway through my fucking day.
I'm not eating or exercising the way I should, or want to. I'm an excellent cook, in perhaps the greatest food and shopping city in the world, and money is no longer a barrier to getting the kinds of high quality, varied health foods I love. I love walking, and used to do it, just for the hell of it, for up to four hours a day, depending on what I had to do that day (think walking from my apartment in Brookline to the Boston Haymarket on a summer afternoon. And walking back. And then walking over to Cambridge for my internship, drinks and fun with friends. I used to do that shit. Now, I walk to the gym, maybe three, four days a week, and spin myself to nowhere for 40 minutes at a time). I've gained 25 lbs in the last few years. And while, weight-wise, I'm not anywhere near where I was fifteen years ago, that's a friggin' lot, goddammit.
And my apartment is a fucking pig-sty.
All of this is my fault. All of it. And it's making me nuttier than a box of Cracker Jacks.
So why I am sitting here doing this, not sleeping, not cleaning, and definitely having just finished a bowl of cold sesame noodles delivered to me at greater-than-I-should-be-expending-expense?
Wait a minute. Why am I sitting here doing this?
I'm going to go clean. I'll go to bed when I've finished.
And tomorrow morning, I'll get up early enough to go for an actual walk to a place that doesn't involve other people all walking in place.
And I'll make plans for my new day off, since I'll be cutting back my workload by a day per week. Those plans will include a weekly pitch research-and-writing session. By the end of this month, one of those fuckers better result in an actual pitch. I haven't written for anyone but myself since last August. The loss of income from that day I'm not working will be a nice motivator, too.
And seriously, I have got to stop with the dinner delivery. Goodgod. If I just put aside what I usually spent on delivery each month, I probably won't notice the lost wages, anyway.
I'm pretty sure that if I iron this stuff out, my desire for new Pumas and electronics will fall off sharply. Not to nothing, but to a far lower level of insane desire for shiny wired things and bright suede shoes.
Speaking of which, tomorrow, more posts about shoes. Promise. No, really, because I spent, like, an hour today at Puma.com making up a fantasy list, and, my, was it fantastic. I could spend $600 at Puma.com eeeeeeeezaaaaaaay.
What? All that other shit is going to take some time.
I'll probably take this stupid post down in the morning. Dammit.
*That would be Coldplay.
A selection of recent searches that led people to my blog
"Moroccan bitch"
"Rachel Ray hot nipples"
"How to pronounce 'Scion'" (Hint, the 'c' is silent, the 'i' is long, and this bettah not show up as a child's name, pronounced skee-AHN, dammit)
"Big Black Butt magazine"
and the creme de la creme....
HUNGRY JACK PANCAKE MIX DIRECTIONS!
Gotdammit, apparently folks do look for that online. Pardon me, Recipegoldmine.com, for overestimating the cooking acumen of your readership.
Ohmygod, what's left?
Since I am on the subject of random search terms that lead to my blog, and my HitMap has me perversely desirous of increasing traffic from random corners of the world, here's a list of terms designed to do nothing but draw random search traffic from around the world:
Marburg hemorrhagic fever outbreak in Angola. (okay, this is serious, so folks should maybe be looking for ways to help)
Slovakia and Ukraine and topless!
Arsenal, All-Blacks, and Scottish transvestite hookers!
Brazilian shemale models!
Kim Jong Il!
Kim Il Jong!
Daifuku recipe?
Amitabh Bachchan
Anna Kournikova not at all naked
Drug busts street violence Guam
Okay, that should do it. We'll see how my HitMap looks next week...
