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film:
"Let us just say: I was deeply unhappy, but I didn't know it, because I was so happy all the time."
"Cheating on a quiz show? That's sort of like plagiarizing a comic strip."
"Eric Von Zipper adores you. And when Eric Von Zipper adores somebody, they stay adored."
soundtrack:
david lynch:
"A sweaty salute to aging. In a wee four months, I will be leaving the devil-may-care twenties behind for the bittersweet cardigan and minivan years known as the thirty-somethings. I am not ready. I am not fucking ready! Stay gold, Pony Boy. Gone are the days of scorpion bowl binge drinking and whoopie pie munchies. Good times. Ethel? Pass me the jar of Revitalift when you're done with it. Im telling a story over here. Earl gray, no milk. Lactose, you know."
the rabbit:
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unsmooth criminal * * * I'm sitting in the female holding cell on a cold slab that serves as a bench, or perhaps a bed. There is a singular, silver toilet in the room. I got here by walking down a sidewalk encased in large rings of barbed wire. I can see five or so inamte workers all dressed in orange, which is definitely not this summer's new pink, using what looks to be hoes on the hilltop. My mind drifts to Shawshank Redemption. The cheerful man in a pastel blue polo shirt and snug khakis, young, maybe 22, says it will take about an hour and a half if all goes well.
Actually, I'm a little nervous about writing in here with all the guards and non-guards moving freely about. What if my pen constitutes a weapon? I'll say I didn't know. I'll plead ignorance. Someone, a man, just peeped his head into my cell and "Psssst!"ed at me. Moments ago a middle aged black woman was issued into my cell. She didn't speak, but sat beside me rocking slowly back and forth--the movement adopted by orphaned children in developing nations who are starved for attention and human contact. It brings one comfort. Her name is Ms. Buford and she wears a circular patch on her upper left arm. A curious, round Band-aid type thing. A new girl arrives with long, long hair that might have never been cut. It is wavy and brown and it swipes my arm as she swings it around, exasperrated. Her wait will be more than two hours and her infant sun is in the car with her mother in the dishwasher heat. She's allowed to walk outside because there is no phone. * * * They call out names one at a time, summoning each individual for a photo shoot and fingerprinting. As each name is called, a face appears--craning to see into the female cell. Some of them smile flirtatously our way. Apparently, someone's fingerprints showed up in the "database", which means, for whatever reason, we are now four behind. Another woman has joined our group. * * * There is a tv on the wall, just above the door, that's picture is channel-less snow. Below a sign reads "This T.V. doesn't pick up any channels. Don't touch T.V. Ever!" I wonder if the sign is why it the broken television blares static at us. I catch the three of us staring up at the screen in silence, save for the long-haired girl's quips about how the toilet here is a lot like the one in juvenile. * * * I've got this piece of printer paper folded into 1/8ths so it is barely bigger than the palm of my hand. The guard just saw me writing and doesn't seem to mind. Somewhat a relief. * * * I can hear a man telling tales of 10-year sentences and how he just got out. He jokes about making a shirt that says "Arrest me. I'm stupid." He begins bragging about how he earns hundreds a day. I suppose he is stupid. * * * My name was called and I was moved to, along with my lady friends, yet another cold slab bench for more waiting. Ronald, who's being fingerprinted before me, skinny with greasy hair and velcro sneakers, is ranting because his fingerprints don't match up with previous files. "I've been printed a thousand times!," he yells. My own turn came and a large, teddy bear man with a badge and a crewcut took my hand in his gloved hand and smooshed my thumb across a screen that looked like a grocery scanner. Then he did the rest of my digits. He commented on my small fingers, which did look miniscule in his big paw. * * * Two Latino men are standing abreast in holding cell #9, across from #12 where I've been placed. My cellmate expresses her envy at my corner seat, as the guys from cell #9 and #10 can see right in at her. All the males are staring into our holding cell-- for minutes. Their stares are empty but uncomfortable. * * * That is all I wrote while within the jail, but things sped along quickly after I scribbled my final words. My trip today didn't require bonding myself out, but it did chip away at my dignity. However, I feel a little bit Hunter S. Thompson today, and that can't be all bad. Tuesday, June 4, 2002 07:35 p.m. Triumph the Insult Comic Dog spent an afternoon with "35-year-old geeks who have never had sex" waiting in line for Episode 2, dressed out in their regalia. The clip is over ten minutes long, but treat yourself. It's pure funny. Also, check out the Triumph sketch at the Jon Bon Jovi concert in New Jersey at IFilm. Mmmhmm, jokes at the expense of others make you feel good, like a thick, cushy pair of socks. Stolen straight from metafilter.
Prepare yourself for the most amazing display of cursing you have ever motherfucking heard.
How are you for me? I promised Russ an email for weeks, and as I'm wont to do, forgot, but he was kind enough to forgive me as well as offer me a free book. Pretty swell. Today, I noted that Ed had a link to his enneagram profile, which can determine how compatible his readers are. Obviously, I joined suit, so that you the reader can determine how compatible we are. Not that you care, but you might. Once my buddy Russ sends out my free (yay!) book, I can write more about what those results mean. With my mind on my money, and my money on my mind. Report results here. Be very afraid. | 4 comments fretting You see, in the week since my unfortunate incident with Nashville Metro police, I've discovered that the 500 dollar fine I recieved is not the extent of my damages. There will be court costs, I forgot, totalling who-the-fuck-knows how much, but I also have to raise bail. Apparently, when I go "turn myself in" (Sheesh.) I will then have to be bailed out in order to avoid spending the night on a cold, hard slab of concrete with a toilet near my head. And while Melanie is helping me pay for half of my fine, I can't ask her to help out more than that. I feel horribly guilty enough already about agreeing to accepting her money in the first place. I'll be surrendering myself on Monday, at which time I'll be assigned a court date. Alas, the festival begins Tuesday during which I'll be working 12-16-hour days on site. For free. Actually, they are paying me $100 to bartend at the John Waters shindig, plus tips, but otherwise I'm slave labor. NIFF pays me for half my time there now, approximately 12 hours per week, while I work the other 12 as a volunteer. I'm thinking of explaining my situation to the fetival director to see if I can be compensated for even some of my time during the fest, otherwise I'll have to skip out in order to work at Outback. Which is super-duper shitty, because all of my effort thus far has been in anticiaption of this event. Next week is the big payoff. I'll be meeting film critics from all over the state, as well as Film Comment and Film Threat, animators from Pixar, grassroots filmmakers and producers, Susan Sarandon, press from all over and perhaps even John Freakin' Waters. Unless, that is, I have to sling burgers and beers in order to pay the bills. I finally saved up a bit of money, thanks to the graduation cash cow, and was well on my way to a respectable moving fund. Now, I'm right back to zero, it would seem, with little to show for it but a criminal record. Chances are NIFF won't be able to afford to pay me during the festival, even just a little. Our office administrator (and print trafficker, and Indie Club manager) does the job of two people as is and she had to threaten an ultimatum to get even a teeny raise. The results of all my hard work as of late seems to be evaporating just as the real tough stuff begins. I haven't sent out a single resume, although I've got all the work I can handle for now (I just don't get paid for it), and I sense myself sliding backward, not marching forward. And a May hailstorm chipped the paint on my already banged-up car Thursday on my commute home. And I have a cold. Addendum: Minutes after closing this post, I gathered up cleaning supplies and pulled the light on in the kitchen, at which time the glass light fixture fell onto my head and then smashed into pieces onto the linoleum. I demand cheerful sentiments. Or money. | 3 comments so five minutes ago * * * All ninjas fight all the time. Sometimes they stab. Part II Melanie and I trudged back to her vehicle, an SUV, and packed it in for the 35-minute drive home. We hit 21st Avenue going 43 miles per hour, I would later learn, in a 30-mile-per-hour speed zone. I discovered this just after after an officer of the law ran out onto the road on foot and asked us to stop the car. Immediately I became nervous because I could smell the cabernet on my own breath. He asked for my driver's license and after rooting around in my wallet I pulled it out, along with 2 dozen business cards, stamp books and loose phone numbers. Then he asked me to back up in the middle of a busy Nashville highway near an interstate exit and pull into the parking lot. Since Mel's automatic SUV is completely different from my standard shift, economy car, it isn't surprising that I put the car in park rather than reverse. After I successfully pulled into a parked position I was asked immediately to step out of the car. Just as I stepped onto the pavement, hard droplets of rain poked me repeatedly on the head and forehead but I didn't recognize the ominous foreshadowing that so clearly presented itself. Nope, I was confident I would be back on the road in no time. I was asked to follow a pen with my eyes, without moving my head, which I did skillfully for what must have been minutes. Then Officer Cox (I am not making this up) instructed me to walk a painted line, one foot before the other, turning after nine steps then repeating that process in the direction I came. Wearing thin, strappy heels I asked to remove my shoes and was granted permission to do so. This left me standing in ever-growing puddles in pants too long for my bare feet. I made do, and walked the plank like a good, sober girl. And for my last trick I raised my left leg, straight out, and counted to 20, adding the "one-thousand" part after each number. Sometime during this battery of motor skills testing, Melanie leans out the passenger window to yell "You are doing good, girl!" I believe she is under the assumption I need some cheerleading, but as you can imagine, it had a negative effect on the events. It was then that Cox informed me I've done well on my field sobriety test but that he has reason to believe I am intoxicated and forces me (really) into the back of the police car. This is the point during which I kind of seperated from myself in order to deal with what I was facing. The only thing I could think of at the time was a jail cell full of mullet-having motorcycle women with tears tatooed beneath their eyes and hate in their hearts for goody-two-shoes girls like myself. The words the officer spat at me became wavy and despite my driving pulse, I tried to employ some mediatation techniques to create calm. It sort of worked. I agreed to take the breathalyzer because my other option was spending the night in jail, and well, there was no way in hell I was going to volunteer to go there. And besides, I'd had my last drink over two hours ago--I was confident I'd drive away from there after passing with flying colors. Thing is, they don't grade on a curve. Coxface tells me I'll have to wait 20 minutes before blowing, because a recent drink of alcohol could skew the results higher than is accurate. Twenty minutes felt like 20 years and I asked the officer how much time I had left. "Thirteen minutes," he told me, grinning, and I softly began to cry. "Why are you crying?," he asked, doing his very best smart-ass. "Stop it." "Dry it up," he demanded and I knew I'd get no slack from this motherfucker. At night he dreams of becoming a drill sargeant. I nearly puked on myself from the heat in the cop car and the weight of my situation. Finally, thankfully, I could take the BAC. I blew into the tube for ten full seconds, only to learn it would take 3 more minutes for the results. I bit my bottom lip and cried as quietly as I could into my lap and waited for my verdict. .085 I had the right to remain silent, I heard that part, but the rest washed over my ears in a warbly tone. I was issued a DWI, which carries a 500 dollar fine, as well as a ticket for an unchanged address on my driver's license and a citation for Melanie's not having proof of insurance. After asking Mel to take the BAC to determine whether she could drive the both of us home, and scored a very impressive 2.0, we finally secured a ride home from my sister. And although sweet Melanie will be helping me with the burden of my fine, I feel beaten and downtrodden since my run-in with the lawman. I'll have this dirty smear on my record for the next five years, and a second DUI/DWI will land me in jail for 45-days. Please, people, keep your children away. assorted
Has anyone else heard the radio commercial for Denny's featuring Kermit and Miss Piggy from the Muppets? The spot is an ad for the 20-year-old Grand Slam breakfast that consists of eggs, pancakes, bacon and sausage. Part I The night began at the Bound'ry, Nashville's trendiest restaurant right now, where the waiters are rude and the wine servings are nearly eight ounces. The menu is pricey, so as women often do, we kept dinner light and had tastings of this and that rather than entrees for all. After three generous glasses of wine with dinner I was feeling rather warm all over, with a looser tongue and morals and such. Upon leaving the Bound'ry however, I realized my ride Melanie had surpassed me in the shit-ay department and I figured I should sober up pretty quick, since the prospect of Melanie driving home was crumbling. We carpooled to Bourbon St. on Printers Alley where cocktails were cold (one for me), the blues was hot and the boobies were everywhere. We laughed and danced and acted like a bunch of lamers in retrospect, but while the rest of my group descended deeper into drunkeness, I actually began sobering up. I was tired by the time we made it outside and was glad to be on the road home to Murfreesboro... Stayed tuned for the horrific conclusion of this story, complete with breathalizers, hand-cuffs and miranda rights, to be continued after my bar shift. This just in:
I'm tired, humiliated, and I am going to take a nap.
broadband snob You probably won't watch them all, if any, so here are some personal recommendations:
feeling masochistic?: Pagan Poetry
Enjoy! It's already been boughten! Hence, the winner of the Give Me a New Name contest is dong_resin for his clever and creative submission. "Seemed like a nice girl" is a quote from the 7th (or 8th) episode of Twin Peaks spoken by Pierre Tremond (Austin Jack Lynch) referring to the deceased Laura Palmer. It is an obscure quote, one I barely caught, and only after having watched that episode. A big thumbs up for out-obscuring me in Twin Peaks references. But the phrase as a domain name is a good one, because the name alone denotes a bit of mystery. "Seemed", as in past tense, "like a nice girl" infers that what one once believed about my disposition has been challenged. I enjoy that. And besides, nobody likes nice girls. Our winner's prize will, upon his decision to reliquish mailing information to a near stranger, will be a box o' goodies--a bag of tricks, if you will. I figured, in loving honor of Misc. Etc., the winner shall recieve a package of assorted stuff hand-picked by me for his amusement. You are all right, it is a weak-ass prize, but I'm on a budget and it's not as though he saved a rain forest or a dying kitten or something. So, dong_resin, king of my domain (yuck yuck), come forth with a valid mailing address to claim your prize, because buddy, you are a winner tonight.
* * * Calling all Tweakers: MK2 will meet with Lynch at Cannes to negotiate the rights of the deleted scenes from "Fire Walk With Me," so let them hear loudly, and politely, from you. Even if you sent in your can of corn--letter attatched--to New Line, you must write again as this is a different company and may be the last chance for us to ever experience new footage from Twin Peaks. I *heart* David Cross. The Exit/In is a small club and the place was filled to capacity, with 8 available chairs. None to pleased by having to stand up for several hours, I took to the vodka/tonics pretty hard. (Weirdly, even though I'd had only a hanful of Ritz crackers for dinner, I didn't catch even the faintest buzz. $20 and 800 calories, all for nought.) The crowd was an attractive group, with nearly everyone there wearing a cardigan on the cool May evening. And undoubtedly every one of them owned at least one Weezer album, probably Pinkerton. And we girls were outnumbered five to one, which I suspect may have lended itself to the somewhat charged atmosphere. David came on and immediately emenated a casual, down-to-earth charisma that set the audience at ease and set the tone for a very personal sort of evening. His bits were hysterical--his jokes about square bagels did more for my abs than Pilates ever did--but he also stopped to ask questions of audience members and picked someone to sub in while he took a leak. He drank bottle after bottle of Heineken (his only flaw) and even gave one to that attention-seeking harpy in the front row "since she had the balls to ask." His act went on for just over two-hours and afterwards he hung out and signed autographs and chilled. Oddly, there were more than a couple old flames from my *very* past that materialized, and one of them took my picture with David with his camera and will be mailing it to me in the next week. It will be scanned and posted here for all to see immediately thereafter. Perhaps he'll be ego-surfing one afternoon and discover it, remember the chick he called out for cutting line and think fondly of me. Perhaps, there's chance, he'll discover my intense crush on him and seek me out for a romance chock full of cynacism and criticism. We'd make the perfect pair. Except that I outweigh him by five or ten pounds. (note to self: skip yoga, hit treadmill) Man. I haven't had one this bad since Mulder. The Green Way
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Bumper sticker seen on a Yugo at the Trail Head parking lot: Heh.
More tomorrow after this love buzz wears off. lil' perv And then she laughed and laughed. Top Five Best & Worst Taglines from Blogsnob Best
Grammarporn - OK, no porn, but lots of haha Worst (names withheld to protect the guilty)
..mostly.. Harmless consequences Sometimes I hate how human I am. She blogs outdoors? "So what are you going to do now?" Sweet shit, how I loathe that question. No one is immune. Everyone wants to know, but nobody gets a very good answer. So I thought I'd really think it through just so I can forget the whatever-makes-me-happy, shoe-shuffle routine. First and foremost, I'm going to keep on keeping on. I'm going to get up in the morning, same as the last, and breathe in and out incessantly, and grow hungry and tired and old. To ask the question "What are you going to do now?", one must determine what is meant by "now." I mean, right this very instant I am outside on a blanket, sipping the sun and listening to the squawking trio of birds overhead and I'm writing. So I suppose what I am going to do now (which, evidentally, means in the near future) is what I am already doing now. Writing. A more direct answer to the insufferable question is that I'll be continuing my work as a bartender/waitress since it seems to be the only gig presently paying the bills, while part-timing at NIFF five days a week until the end of June. All the while looking for a paid position as a writer. I've got lofty aspirations, but I am strictly aware of the difficulty in this. If I had clearer direction, or more clips, or more drive, perhaps I'd be more smoothly on my way. But I haven't got any of those things, so I'll be taking what I can get, where ever I can get it. As the wanderer-type, I only recently committed to my heart's desire of writing as a career choice. I've sought the advice of one man I admire, whose words have been a helpful tool in my search for a path. Now, I'd like to solicit more. Those readers who consider themselves writers, professional or otherwise, send me advice, words of wisdom or caveats. Or recommend reading you feel would be valuable--fiction or non-fiction. Be a big brother or sister to a wayward novice, won't you? |
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