not-so-daily pic

quotes for now:

"When this kind of fire starts, it is
very hard to put out. The tender boughs of innocence burn
first, and the wind rises, and then all goodness is in jeopardy."
-The Log Lady,
Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me

"I'm beat, beet red
Ashamed of what I said
I'm sorry, here I go
I know I'm a sinner
but I can't say no"
-Tired of Sex, Weezer

"Sure, I know about Europe.
I've seen the TV shows.
I'm a fan, definite."
-George Bush, our President

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Let's hear it for the bath!
Tuesday, February 12, 2002
02:18 p.m.
Today, kottke's funny.
Stranger things have happened.

Sex and the Shitty Monday Blues
Monday, February 11, 2002
03:42 p.m.
Charlotte is dating again, Samantha finally fell in love only to have her heart smashed, Miranda had a baby, and Mr. Big moved to Napa Valley, leaving behind Carrie, New York, and it's all just a little too much.


A Conversation with The Man
Saturday, February 9, 2002
12:12 p.m.
Last night was incredible. Mind-blowing. Extra-fucking-ordinary, but first things first.

I had to open last night which invloves coming in an hour early to set up the server's line in exchange for a decent station, minimal sidework and getting to be the first one out the door (if all goes well). Not a bad gig until the new fascist managers came in and chopped that opening hour into a half hour and cut one of the opener's sections in half.

Today I came in an hour early (3 p.m.) anyhow, so I don't have to work at break-neck speed in order to finish by the time the first customers are seated. Upon my arrival, I am informed that a party of 60 will be coming in at 3:30 for drinks and appetizers. I wasn't told this, mind you, by any sort of boss-type, but by the single girl they bothered to inform. Thanks to a few kind souls everything was prepared with time to spare, but the point is: This party of 60 was scheduled to come in at the same time as the openers. Had my fellow opener and I not come in early there would have been no tea, ice, coffee, lemons cut, trashcans, trays put out, full pitchers or hot bread.

I believe that this is a clear-cut case of two men being promoted beyond their abilities.

The party turns out to be 60 elementary school teachers. I'll spare you the enormous lists of reasons why any server reading this is now shuddering at the thought.
Needy. Picky. And cheap.

The hens, I mean ladies, wandered around the dining room gossiping with friends like it was a fucking cocktail party, placing multiple drink orders with multiple servers.
They insisted on 60 seperate checks, which to be honest was a relief as they were acting like a bunch of rude fifth-graders, hopping from booth to booth and creating hysteria.

How appropriate.

Come to learn much later, after Todd came in wanting to pick up a shift (I promptly threw him my tickets, highlighter and apron and sat down to the first of two margaritas.), the appetizers were comped, as were the sodas and the only thing the women had to buy were any alcoholic beverages they may have had.
So, the poor servers I left stranded when Todd came on, made next to nothing in tips because as one teacher was so kind to admit, "I only have $3.25 for my beer, so I can't leave a tip."


I was flustered and pissed and we hadn't even officially opened yet. So, I got out while the getting was good and spent my Firday talking with David Lynch.


Shit you I would not.

You see, a few months ago I became a member of It is $10 a month, and while I was skeptical for a while about whether the fee was worth it, I'm now sorry I even entertained that tought.
Lynch is using the site as his new medium. Rather than wrestle with t.v. or movie execs, he is using the website as his outlet. There are several new episodes of Dumbland, as well as gorgeous photography and bizarre art. There is even this mysterious phone game that really sets my socks on fire. Within the site, and on Lynch DVDs and CDs will be hidden codes you can enter into the rotary phone at the site. I'm not clear where the game is going but it sure is fun trying to find new codes.

But after visiting the chat rooms (X and Y) I learned that David Lynch actually frequents them--and often. I just knew these people were pulling my leg, but once I had seen the chat transcripts I began to believe. Just looking through his answers to the questions, and his expressions ("KEEP YOUR EYE ON THE DONUT - NOT ON THE HOLE")--it had to be him.

Last night around 9:30 I made my way into the chat room and saw it there immediately. The red, all capital letters.
I quickly introduced myself, and he said "OH - THE BLUEROSE IS HERE - HELLO" and "GOOD EVENING TO YOU BLUEROSE." Like we were old friends.

I couldn't believe what was happening. I was conversing with a master filmmaker, an esteemed auteur whom I worship as if he were a sort of diety.

Obviously, I immediately clammed up and couldn't think of a single intelligent thing to ask. Oh, just see for yourself:

Chat Transcript at, February 8, 2002.

I'll be renting La Strada and The Apartment per DL's recommendation.

I couldn't decide whether to own up to this or not, but one of the several women who paticipate at the site (a photo gallery of members) is creating a Women of calender. David (look, we're on a first name basis now) will get a copy designed specifically for him, and the other members will get another one: free.

They want me to participate and I'm all for it. I got in late, so I'm left to decide between Lil or Nadine.
I'd love to know what you think.

What does it mean that someone found me by typing the words about+the+devil in a search engine?


Saturday, February 9, 2002
12:47 a.m.

Portishead: Portishead

Lyrics to "Elysium"

No one has said what the truth should be,
And no one decided that I'd feel this way,
If you felt as I,
Would you betray yourself.

But you can't deny how I feel,
And you can't decide for me.

No one should fear what they cannot see,
And no ones to blame it's just hypocrisy,
It's written in your eyes,
And how I despise myself.

But you can't deny how I feel,
And you can't decide for me.

And it's your heart,
That's so wrong,
You'll never know,
Your feathered sacred self.

But you can't deny how I feel,
And you can't decide for me.

And you can't deny how I feel,
And why should you decide for me.

This band has got to be the closest thing to doing heroin there is aside from, um, methadone probably.


Funk in the trunk.
Friday, February 8, 2002
11:41 a.m.
I've been sitting here, having a staring contest with the monitor, reaching desperately for funny happenings or sparkling prose to come forth from me, in spite of everything.

God, how dramatic. There is no "everything" except that I'm in a funk. As of late I'm short on energy, patience, and the ability to get the fuck over myself and have a Coke and a smile. Everyday is its own struggle.
I've got no complaints really. No legitimate ones anyway.
It's funny how from a distance I can see that this is nothing more than a slump. For all I know, it could be seasonal, because that is sort of how I feel: wintery. Cold and stark and sort of miserable.

But I know that in a few days I'll be serenading Sam with my own rendition of "I Love Ya, Baby" and it'll be all sunshine and fairy dust, but for now it's kind of black tea and Xanax. (Just kidding, mom.)

Actually, the prospect of sunshine and fairy dust has suddenly lightened my mood and I think I'm on the road to recovery.

Some say I am fickle. I say, maybe I am.

My submission was accepted by The Mirror Project, a gallery of reflections. Here is the photo:

Also, I'm thinking of restaging this one, taking the photo at a higher resolution and submitting it to

That's 6:53 a.m.

I'm also currently revamping Shutter to Think thanks to snapGallery!

I consider myself fortunate to have taken in some very good films in the last week, thanks to the afore mentioned funk, now currently on its way out. I mentioned In the Bedroom, which was fantastic but a soul-wrenching experience it may take me a while to revisit.
I bought Ghost World on DVD Tuesday. I watched it a second time and this time I let it have its way with me. I can clearly see this inching its way up my list of favorites.
Then last night, the sweet-as-pie Justin and I saw The Royal Tenenbaums. I had such a ball at this movie. I chuckled and snorted in all the most unattractive ways, and I still couldn't be heard over my companion's guffawing. We saw this with a great audience whose laughter was infectous.

Good times.

Now, I'm always down for lists. Especially long ones that are elistist and mean like this one. But in this case they have included the flawed but perfectly competent Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me on this List of All-Time Stinkers instead of obvious failures like Bonfire of the Vanities or Hot to Trot.

I have often considered lengthening the daily reading section for sundry reasons, but I've decided to keep it to those I truly read everyday.
But like every mom, or at least mine, I have my favorites. (Again, Mom, totally kidding.) And that favorite is: rabbit blog.
Here's why:
You will feel better tomorrow, but that means nothing. You'll feel worse next week, but that also means shit. I am the worst possible person to ask for advice, for I trust not emotions. Or, I didn't, and now that's all I do. Emotions keep a slippery hand on the wheel, and one eye on the first mate's big dick. You know. They're not to be trusted. Or it's best to trust them, depending on how you look at it, and how much fiber you ate today.

Sometimes nonsense cuts the cleanest path to truth. Sometimes nonsense cuts twisting circles through the Amazon jungle, leading nowhere, and several infected bug bites and teary, desperate cries to the gods for mercy later, you starve, and are immediately eaten by large worms the likes of which no civilized man hath seen.

-The Rabbit

Talent and wit the likes of which I can merely aspire.

I had a lot more to say, but I can feel that funk creeping back in.

Sometimes, I guess, we just must succumb.




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shutter to think: photos


somewhat daily reading
deep blue day
i really must insist you leave.
mass transit
edgeling's infinite ocean
mr. cranky
rotten tomatoes
rabbit blog
apt. 121; aireline