not-so-daily pic

quotes for now

film:
"What the hell did I know about California? For some people it was still a place of hopes and dreams, a chance to start over. The idea was if you could get there everything would be okay, and if it wasn't okay there, well, it probably wasn't going to be okay anywhere."
-Brian, Kalifornia

"Let us just say: I was deeply unhappy, but I didn't know it, because I was so happy all the time."
-Harris, L.A. Story

"Cheating on a quiz show? That's sort of like plagiarizing a comic strip."
-Mark Van Doren, Quiz Show

"Eric Von Zipper adores you. And when Eric Von Zipper adores somebody, they stay adored."
-Eric Von Zipper, Beach Blanket Bingo

soundtrack:
"Patience
a silent virture
i don't want to hurt you
reflex to old imprinting
your eyes are squinting
and it seems
i'm not what you wanted me to be
now i know i'm not what i said that i was
i just wanted this to be true
im not sure where i went
but you deserve someone more innocent"
-Sheila Nicholls, "Patience"

david lynch:
FRANK'S GAS MASK - WHICH OF COURSE I USE EACH WEEKEND
-David Lynch, when asked if he'd snagged any props from his films; www.davidlynch.com

"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."
-rebecca, sweat flavored gummi

the rabbit:
"(2)paces in circles around apartment, wondering whether to a) make inspiring but melancholy mix CD, b) walk to 7-11 for nachos and cola squishy, c) write 10 more pages of novel without consulting now-oppressive and illegible outline thingy, or d) sit in place on couch, daydreaming about Britney Spears's torso until weak with hunger, necessitating crawling on hands and knees to fridge, where sliced jarlsberg and sweet pickles wait in joyful hope for the coming of their savior."
-rabbit, on her own kind of OCD, the rabbit blog

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unsmooth criminal
Thursday, June 6, 2002
01:06 a.m.
Today I turned myself in at the Metro Police Department, South Precinct for booking and to receive a court date for last weekend's DWI. I arrived at the facility and found the arrows pointing toward the citation processing center and made my way inside. Once there, I was placed in a holding cell for over two hours, and documented what I could on a scrap piece of paper in my purse. Here is what I wrote down:

* * *

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.
Okay, we're overreacting.

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.

Discuss | 2 comments

It's funny ha-ha.
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.
Found at fark.

I am now the proud owner of the first two seasons of Mr. Show on DVD, which hit stores today. I implore you to purchase your own, a buy that may make Run Ronnie Run a reality.

Discuss | no comments

How are you for me?
Sunday, June 2, 2002
04:03 p.m.
I blogged enneagrams a little bit ago after finding the personality test online by chance. I turned out to be a Five, which is appropriate since it is my favorite number. Later, in a chat at DavidLynch.com I barged in on a discussion of enneagrams and added my two-cents. FiveFourGuy, an esteemed DL.com member, seemed an expert of the subject and informed me that Fives were rather rare. Turns out FiveFourGuy is one of the "principal scholars and innovative thinkers in the Enneagram world today." He was surprised I'd blogged enneagrams previous to discovering the connection between the two.

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
Saturday, June 1, 2002
02:17 p.m.
I'm in a state of emergency, and of all my available options, I've chosen to whine. Hate it for you.

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
Saturday, June 1, 2002
02:11 a.m.
Ask yourself. What's better? Tori Amos or Velveeta? Beef or Divine Retribution? Human Rights or the Who?

* * *

All ninjas fight all the time. Sometimes they stab.

Discuss | no comments

Part II
Wednesday, May 29, 2002
10:46 p.m.
the conclusion...

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.

Discuss | 4 comments

assorted
Wednesday, May 29, 2002
06:21 p.m.
ABC programs a new television show entitled "Push, Nevada," that was created in part by Ben Affleck, and bears an undeniable resemblance to the network's previous, early-90s (short-lived) hit "Twin Peaks." Only problem is, Ben Affleck is no David Lynch, especially not since he got off the sauce.

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.
I suppose it is just as twisted as that rideable pig in the lobby of the local BBQ place.

Discuss | 1 comment

Part I
Wednesday, May 29, 2002
12:20 p.m.
Bachelorette parties are raucous and rowdy, though they don't garner the tales of lore associated with their counterpart, the bachelor party. True, none of us girls are doing lines of cocaine off a stipper's tit, except in LA or in the rarest of cases, but brides-to-be too want their last hedonistic hoorah and invite thier closest girlfriends to participate in the debauchery. And you thought it was white gloves and tea cakes.

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.

Discuss | 2 comments

This just in:
Sunday, May 26, 2002
01:40 p.m.
Look to the right of your screen. See that face? That is the face of a criminal.

Me, with wine in question.  FIVE HOURS before being detained!
Last night, after four glasses of wine over a six-hour period, I was pulled over at a road block and issued a DWI.

I'm tired, humiliated, and I am going to take a nap.

Discuss | 4 comments

broadband snob
Thursday, May 23, 2002
04:31 p.m.
Turn off TRL and instead watch some of the trippiest, most beautifully striking music videos ever produced.

You probably won't watch them all, if any, so here are some personal recommendations:

feeling masochistic?: Pagan Poetry
feel like a change?: Hunter
believe in free will?: Bachelorette
like Ren and Stimpy?: I Miss You
feeling hot and squirmy?: Possibly Maybe
feeling like jumping?: Hyperballad

Enjoy!
Discuss | 3 comments

It's already been boughten!
Wednesday, May 22, 2002
10:42 p.m.
This afternoon I registered seemedlikeanicegirl.com for one year, and when Matt is good and ready, that will be the new home for my weblog. Professional design, archived posts, a big-girl domain name. Seems I am moving on up.

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.

Discuss | 3 comments

I *heart* David Cross.
Monday, May 20, 2002
02:02 a.m.
Bald, skinny, short, sexy, sardonic, David Cross. Saturday night I went back to the Exit/In to see one-half of the duo behind one of the funniest shows ever aired on television, Mr. Show, David Cross. It was a sketch comedy program, but smart and scathing, on pay-for t.v., so there were hardly any limits on how far they could take things. (The episodes come out in July on DVD; save up starting now.)

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.

Discuss | 3 comments

The Green Way
Sunday, May 19, 2002
12:12 p.m.
Found below are assorted photos from yesterday's run/walk at The Greenway. Each photo, if clicked, will lead you to a gallery of more Greenway pictures.

* * *

Bumper sticker seen on a Yugo at the Trail Head parking lot:
Tree-hugging Dirt Worshipper

Heh.

Discuss | no comments


Sunday, May 19, 2002
03:08 a.m.
Tonight I met David Cross after a phenomenal two full hours of hilarity on him. And now I want to have his babies.

More tomorrow after this love buzz wears off.

Discuss | no comments

lil' perv
Saturday, May 18, 2002
04:10 p.m.
While determining the best value on turkey bacon at the grocery, a little girl wearing a smiley-face sticker on her forehead ran up and grabbed my ass.

And then she laughed and laughed.

Discuss | 4 comments

Top Five Best & Worst Taglines from Blogsnob
Friday, May 17, 2002
04:18 p.m.
Top Five Best and Worst Taglines from Blogsnob, entries 655 through 909:

Best

Grammarporn - OK, no porn, but lots of haha
Wishing Star - It's only kinky the first time
Acetylene - For fun and on purpose
barkins.com - Sexy white male, or not
Diary of a Mad Monk - Heaps of heresy and self-aggrandizement

Worst (names withheld to protect the guilty)

..mostly.. Harmless
tower of angst
How boring! Linnie's blog?
more flava than a packa macaroni
Climb inside my head.

Discuss | 1 comment

consequences
Wednesday, May 15, 2002
04:03 p.m.
A white butterfly, its wings' edges dipped in black, flew onto the branch of the hedge, just near my feet. It stayed there, perfectly poised, for almost a half a minute before I frightened it away, driven by the desire to capture it on camera.

Sometimes I hate how human I am.

Discuss | 3 comments

She blogs outdoors?
Wednesday, May 15, 2002
03:34 p.m.

"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?

Discuss | 2 comments

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