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maybe a bright sandy beach
and greg he writes letters with his birthday pen
-Tori Amos, "Pretty Good Year"
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discourse on fast food mascots Sunday, November 10, 2002 01:17 a.m. dong resin: you have a jack in the box? me: yup, lots dong resin: they seem...short bus me: no no, just misunderstood dong resin: right, right me: i like their commercials dong resin: I don't know. I don't trust places with fucking clowns me: right, but see it is a mocking sort of anti-clown, which is cool dong resin: I doubt their ablity to be mocking me: not ronald, he's a pussy, jack is badass dong resin: I H8 ronald..I H8ed him worse as wee youngn' dong resin: seemed reeeeeeal gay to be surrounded by kids like that dong resin: I liked the "burger king". remember him? had a beard? me: i liked that purple thing, what was its name? dong resin: grimace me: yeah, grimace me: grimace is cool dong resin: I like grimace `cause I didn't know what the fuck he was, and neither did the people who created him, I like that in a corporate icon dong resin: there's a whole fucking design team and some animate purple stuff is what they come up with dong resin: "what is this bob?" dong resin: "fuck if I know, dave. call it a grimace." eyebrowaciousness jamboree if it ain't broke The game could change completely in a single roll. Chance Time spaces and countless powerful items were available which put the ball in even the 4th place player's court. In Mario Party 3 there was the very fun Duel Mode where players could battle one on one taking Chain Chomps and Ghosts and others as their offensive and defensive teamsmen. The game often came down to the crucial Happening Star; who landed on the most Happening spaces was anyone's guess since they were liberally strewn about almost every board. In the new version the game is all about strategy. The mini-games are more difficult and the items are fucking weak. None of them are very cool and the two most frequently available only make you big or small--they are mostly inconsequential. The stars are harder to get to as the boards are more intricate and so the scores look less like football numbers and more like soccer. Less scoring means less fun, at least in this instance. Without the fuck-you items that made Mario Party 3 so fun the Party Star (they no longer call it "Winner") goes to whoever is best at it. In order to win consistently at Mario Party 3, you have to be very good--winning often came with practice and acquired skill. But on MP3 a brand new player could win big on his very first game, sweeping all stars with the flip of a swith. With 4, no beginner playing with a seasoned pro stands a chance. I'm not bitter that I haven't won yet, if you must know. troubled
Date: Wed, 06 Nov 2002 12:11:40 +0100 (CET) Hey Sweet,
I just read about the Republican's victory in the election.
What is wrong with the people you share a country with?
They have never truly understood the concept of peace,
have they? They elected this total idiot who likes to play
war as if he still was in fucking Texas, but is risking world
war three. What does he think will happen next?
I love you, please take care, ok? Troubled, Felix hire brittney the NO stage where the kids aren't The fun they must be having, you'd think it were an amusement park. Sometimes I will hear a long cry, one of them must have fallen down, or a yell and if I tried hard enough I might could make out a word. It is a surreal sound to accompany your days, the loud hush of kids at play, yet comforting. Except, when after looking for the tenth time, I consider there is no playground. nice guy landlord I showed up to sign the lease and he glanced over my half-filled out application then stuck it in his pocket and handed me the keys. The carpet was freshly shampooed, the place immaculate and he left me with his business card and a dimpled smile. He speaks in a hushed voice, and waves good-naturedly whenever we pass. He asks how I like the apartment and seems concerned I've had no complaints so far. He asks if the ceiling fan works well and if I have plenty of hot water. (I don't, except with time, but I dare not speak up as it is barely a bother.) He stops by to pick up rent the first time it is due, presenting me with a detailed map of how to reach his office for subsequent payments. This Friday the first I took a look at my checkbook and just couldn't do it that day. I had three shifts ahead of me that would more than cover the lacking money, so I waited. First thing Monday I hopped over to his office and asked his assistant if I owed a late fee. She called to ask him since he was out of the office at which time he asked to speak to me. My pulse raced a little due to past experiences with tyrannical landlords and I took the reciever to my ear. After asking about the place he said he just wanted to tell me that whenever I can get the rent to him is fine. He knows I work on a tip-based salary and if I need an extra week, no sweat. Then he bid me goodbye and I left the office where I pay my rent not feeling poorer but richer. not blown away I read all the hype surrounding Spirited Away, the almost unanimous good reviews and figured I'd be equally impressed with Miyazaki's newest. Instead, I was rather underwhelmed. The art in this anime flick is phenomenal. Spirited Away creates an atmosphere of wonder and whimsy in its lush landscapes and other-worldy beasts. The colors and textures are a rich spectacle but the movie lacked any emotion that I could sense. I found Chihiro's tendancy toward tripping and falling charming, but I just didn't care whether she disappeared or not. I give a rat's ass about any of the characters, in fact. I watched in boredom at the trite old good vs. evil tale where "true love" breaks the most powerful of spells and kept thinking to myself "It sure does have pretty colors." Is there something I don't get? Lou Lumenick of the New York Post writes, "Hayao Miyazaki's breathtakingly beautiful and poetic Spirited Away-- a Japanese cross between Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz-- is such a landmark in animation that labeling it a masterpiece almost seems inadequate." And C.W. Nevius of the San Fransisco Chronicle proclaims Spirited Away, "A lovely, evocative tour de force." Lovely, yes. Evocative? Nuh-uh. Gold star for Florida! made with me in mind 4/12/95 journal entry Your neckties skewered on the antenna, your socks dangling on the weather vane. "And you'll never be late for dinner again, Mister." Your dinner teeters on the chimney's edge. "Here, Love, eat." She's written everything that means anything to her on those cabbage leaves, wrapped them around rice and says she loves to watch you eat something really delicious. Time hiccups. And she's just waiting for you to say something truly poetic. she looked down into her straw happy halloween
I learned very quickly that if you have to explain your costume to everyone, it isn't so much fun. There go my plans to dress as the Log Lady next year. Some comments so far:
"Are you Janeane Garafolo?" sometimes the fries are soggy cold nose It's gotten wear-socks-to-bed cold. It's getting the kind of cold that keeps you cocooned in covers for an extra hour; the kind of cold that isn't so cold when someone's chest is on your back, their breath on your neck. pet peeve #32567 I let this comment run over me for about two minutes before I turned to the kid and said "What do you mean?" He stuttered grinning for a second then said, "I don't know, seems like a weird thing to ask with me sitting right here." Now, anyone who can read a list of ingredients knows Midol is nothing more than pain reliever plus caffeine, a combo much more effective for PMS than just Tylenol or Aleve. It isn't an aspirin dressed up in pink--there is a distinct difference. Yet, this is not the part with which I take issue. Rather, what on earth could have been so foul or offensive about that question that he felt the need to comment? The way many men react to the very notion of menstruation is absurd, as if more than half the population should live in secrecy and shame 5 days a month so the manly men don't have to know it exists. I mean, periods are no fun, for sure, and they are a bit on the icky side, but the revulsion it inspires in mankind really drives me fucking crazy. If you consider yourself masculine, a "real man," then surely you can handle conversation about a menstral period. It isn't as if we are sharing all the details, either. A tampon commercial pops on television and some yahoo remarks that "that is what women's magazines are made for," and I can't help but wonder what they are all so scared of. an excerpt on Florida The state of Florida does incite people. It gives them big ideas. They don't exactly drift there: They come on purpose--maybe to start a new life, because Florida seems like a fresh start, or to reward themselves for having had a hardworking life, because Florida seems plush and bountiful, or because they have some new notions and plans, and Florida seems like the kind of place where you can try anything, the kind of place that for centuries have made entrepreneur's mouths water. It is moldable, reinventable. It has been added to, subtracted from, drained, ditched, paved, dredged, irrigated, cultivated, wrested from the wild, restored to the wild, flooded, patted, set on fire. Things are always being taken out of Florida or smuggled in. The flow in and out is so constant that what exactly the state consists of is different from day to day. It is a collision of things you would expect to find together in one place--condominiums and panthers and raw woods and hypermarkets and Monkey Jungles and strip malls and superhighways and groves of carnivorous plants and theme parks and royal palms and hibiscus trees and those hot swamps with acres and acres that no one has ever even seen--al toasting together under the same sunny vault of Florida sky. Even the orchids of Florida are here in extremes. The woods are filled with more native species of orchids than anywhere else in the country, but also there are scores of man-made jungles, the hothouses of Florida, full of astonishing flowers and that have been created in labs, grown in test tubes, and artificially multiplies to infinity. Sometimes I think I've figured out some order of the universe, but then I find myself in Florida, swamped by incongruity and paradox, and I have to start all over again. A chunky, satisfying paragraph that reinforces my desire to write. And to get back to Florida sometime to explore what else it's got besides broiling beaches and rollercoasters. still, from the you must be fucking kidding me department pidgin Either give me your butt towel or hand me that alice. Walking in a bush! 86 all well and med-well prime. Make that bloom albino. Can I get a ram of cock sauce? Is that C&S reggae? We don't put frita in the large rocks glass. Isn't that a well rack? How long on that coco (also, coke ho)? Does he have chips swinging? You've got a tnut, now drop an 8-count. how did this happen? The old me would have hated the new me. smells like ham *does little happy dance* I'm all flattered and blushing and shit. [I just noticed upon rereading this entry that mme and my sister's names would have been Kevin and Adam had we been of the male persuasion. Neat.] sweet release Sweet Release is a product, a pill, that functions to alter the taste of one's sexual fluids to that of Hard Apple (for men) and Soft Citrus (for women). Now, we can all agree that the natural taste of men and women's sexual fluids is classified as acquired. But if a new boy I liked, and had a strong attraction to, allowed me to pleasure him and Hard Apple is what I got as a result, it might be his last licking. I dislike apples somewhat, I imagine Hard Apple semen I'd like infinitely less. tomorrow's gonna rule I may be indisposed for a week or more, cause it is about to be so very on. aim high, if you miss you'll fall amongst the stars Good enough to copy even.
Here's my own Five Fame Fuckers:
1. After you've discovered for yourself what a Five Fame Fuckers list is, feel free to report back your own. And use your head people, a lackluster Five Fame Fuckers list is very telling. * * * On a side note, I noticed one name that cropped up again and again in the dooce's comment fields where readers posted their lists, a name that irks me. Katie Holmes. An ex of mine found her the most adorable, fuckable being on the planet and apparently he wasn't alone. Katie Freaking Holmes. Feh. weekend window shopping one of our best friends... you don't say "Just because we slept together doesn't mean you can tell me what to do." E.'s face dropped like bricks and A. laughed wildly, harder than I have ever seen her. I was just privvy to some juicy gossip or I got in on an extra-private inside joke. Either way, that card was genius. i *heart* this product You just open the package, peel off the back of a large pad-like thing with little black discs beneath the surface and attach it to the front of your panties. Immediately the pad heats up to soothe your aching insides for, get this, eight full hours. I am now fully clothed and still enjoying the mild heat against my belly and no one is the wiser (besides you, of course, but I trust you won't tell.) Off to buy more! (And, I swear, that will be the last mention of menstral cycles until, well, next month.) asinine that time I am touchy and easily offended this week, and chances are you may make me cry. Sarcasm is somehow lost on me for a few days, and I become irritatingly genuine. I want to know if I look as fat as I feel and goddamn you, there is nothing you can say that will make me not hate you for your answer. In the midst of the cramps and the tears I don't know it's all symptomatic, the fact that I'm blubbering over the Discovery Channel does not mean my sobs and snot aren't real. I spend twice as much time in the bathroom. I pee every time the wind shifts, or I'm examining my pimpled face in a magnifying mirror. Or I'm contemplating how many of these are left, how many eggs was I allotted, whether all of this is for naught. Ebbing and flowing, this woman wishes to remain childless and her body is just going through the motions. ding! I'll buy a wig, black, in a bob cut and chop the bangs really short. I'll tattoo myself with a marker, a Chinese symbol or, better yet, an ankh. I'll buy up some too-small boys t-shirts at the thrift store and put on my wackiest socks. I'll swoon over bands no one's heard of, that perhaps do not exist and smoke lots and lots of cigarettes. Discuss/Suggestions | 7 comments stupid to the infinitieth power How is it possible that someone can know so little? At least she's pretty, though I gather that is the problem. | 3 comments spoiled I remember once my father, drunk on sundry spirits (though typically not a drinking man), plucked me off the ground against my protests, slinging me over his broad firefighter shoulder to accompany him into the street. I was to be his partner in the non-traditional chicken dance practiced at Oktoberfests the world over, the one involving the wiggling of one's ass and tucking of hands under armpits in an unconvincing effort to simulate a chicken wing, then flapping. I was mortified, 12, and (rightly) not drunk. I hated my father for what must have been a few hours after that. Once a teen I stopped going because time spent with parents is better spent at their empty house in their unlocked basement with a cute boy and his tongue. I had even forgotten about the event until my ever-sweet sister reminded me, and we made plans to attend Saturday for the first time since we were of legal drinking age. We awoke on the early side excited and gathered our belongings. I had my camera in tote, and she her camcorder. On the road on the way we passed a gorgeous hill where large plantations once stood and she told me of how in the mornings before the sun comes up, light shines down through the trees and onto the babbling stream like a flashlight shone through paper poked with pencils. I admired the lush green autumn grass before the cold turns it brown and shriveled. I ticked my tongue at the misfortune that the property was privately owned, then looked back to the road to see stopped cars just two car-lengths ahead, and I screamed out my sister's name. Amy slammed on her brakes which slowed us to perhaps 35 miles per hour before plowing into the vehicles ahead of us. I can't shake that sound, the awesome crack on impact that still makes me shudder upon recollection. I swear I thought we'd be hurt very badly before the crash actually happened, and was shocked to find no blood or glass or teeth strewn about. I did wonder what the hell kind of dust I was eating, a by-product of the airbags which saved my skull--and, delirious, worried maybe the car would be exploding soon. I pried open the door and wordlessly got out of the car to see if the occupants before us were safe. They were and so were we, but the cars are another sad, crumpled story. The car Amy and I were in was to be my car, in less than thirty days, a tan Nissan Sentra I'd called only the day before my Little Rolls Royce. There were no beers and there is no car, yet the shitstorm I've been under rages on. It is time to go totally Henry Rollins and embrace the pain. |
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I saw 
