not-so-daily pic

(I still have this shake in my voice
And I'm going to sing you this song)

I don't know you from Adam, it could make my day
If you leave me a message I'll give it away
'Cause the most perfect strangers that you can talk to
Are the ones who pretend that you're not really you

And with any attempts here to play Frankenstein
Come with plenty of chances for changing your mind
When you're building your own creation
Nothing's better than real than a real

I won't find it fantastic or think it absurd
When the gun in the first act goes off in the third
'Cause it's rare that you ever know what to expect
From a guy made of corpses with bolts in his neck

If the creature is limping the parts are in place
With a mind of its own and a fist for a face
Say hello to your new creation
Now it's better than real
It's a real imitation

You may wonder what the catch is
As we batten down the hatches

And when later we find that the thing we devised
Has the villagers clamouring for it's demise
We will have to admit the futility of
Trying to make something more of this jerry-built love

And you'll notice it bears a resemblance to
Everything I imagined I wanted from you
But at least it's my own creation
And it's better than real
It's a real imitation

-Aimee Mann, "Frankenstein"

Validate its existence.

notice someone
get noticed

Sites Outside the Site

these tears are a luxury
Saturday, August 3, 2002
01:22 a.m.
"It is such a secret place, the land of tears."
Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince

no skillz
Wednesday, July 31, 2002
09:11 p.m.
A note to AIM users:

Today I got my very first cell phone and while I managed to log onto AIM with my phone, I cannot seem to log out. However, I did manage to set up a jumping frog screen saver, so it hasn't been a complete failure.

So, if you have been messaging me and gotten no response, it's for this reason only.

Now, anyone know how to log out of AIM on the Kyocera 2255?

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? | 6 comments

don't call me jumpy
Tuesday, July 30, 2002
04:28 p.m.
Why why why do radio stations think it a good fucking idea to use the sounds of car horns and cop cars in traffic reports?

I mean Jesus, really.

Anybody got a Valium? | 5 comment

Monday, July 29, 2002
05:11 p.m.

I look forward to the days when I will miss my hometown.
Sunday, July 28, 2002
11:46 p.m.

You're so Nashville if...

-Towns you've never heard of are going to be hit by a tornado at 6:51, 6:53 and 7:01 p.m.--Rick Hagey

-You attend commission meetings to get the Ten Commandments posted in the schools, although none of your children can read.

-You'll protest the income tax, but pay 140 dollars a month for cable.

-Your city's major newspaper pays someone to report on the WWF.

-You are not sure who Darwin was, but you know that the Truth fish ate him.

-Your church's headquarters is within walking distance of the world's largest porno store.

-None of your local video stores carry the movie Nashville.

-You know at least three people in your DUI class.

-You want your country to be more traditional and your bluegrass to be more progressive.

Discuss | 2 comments

Kitty H8in'
Friday, July 26, 2002
02:28 a.m.
dong resin: that kitten makes me want to stab jesus.
dong resin: I H8 cutesy.
thisgarmonbozia: you don't love my kitten?
dong resin: ahem.
dong resin: if you put it like that
miscetcmiscetc: you don't love my kitten?!
miscetcmiscetc: how can you not adore that cat?
dong resin: it's.. trying really hard.
miscetcmiscetc: he LOVES you...he thinks you are better than ice cream
dong resin: well, that's his issue, isn't it?
miscetcmiscetc: i'm so sad that you h8 that kitten
dong resin: Britt, I'm like ALF.. kittens are only a mild cultural bias away from being food.
miscetcmiscetc: HAHAHA
dong resin: if I went to resturant, and they had a lobster tank fulla kittens, I'd be all "bring me the one with the cute little patches around it's eyes."
dong resin: "leave the eyes in.. I want it to watch me eating it."
miscetcmiscetc: we have to stop this now
miscetcmiscetc: i am a cat person through and through
miscetcmiscetc: love me, love my kitten-lovin'ness
dong resin: Hey, I'll eat people too, sista, don't fucking tempt me.
dong resin: I think anyone who can't read is fair game
miscetcmiscetc: hahaha
miscetcmiscetc: gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "Reading is Fundamental"

Sweet dreams, cute boy.
Discuss | 3 comments

get you some
Thursday, July 25, 2002
01:11 a.m.


makeout club

Discuss | no comments

I love you too, kitty.
Tuesday, July 23, 2002
11:31 p.m.
This is what makes so darned mighty.

I love a kitten in love.

Discuss | 6 comments

Monday, July 22, 2002
03:43 p.m.
While I was in New York, just in that day and a half, I fell in love again with the movies. Granted, I tend to fall in love with the movies more than most people should be allowed. But after working in the thick of the festival--in the industry, albeit the independent one, where my concerns and passions became skewed and clouded--I needed a bit of a smack to put things straight. I needed to see a movie that rekindled the exhilerating burning in my gut that pushes me to see more films, to read more books about them and to reconsider positions on movies I'd long forgotten I'd seen.

In the afternoon, while waiting for guests to arrive, Ed popped in John Cassavetes' Shadows and brewed a fabulously strong pot of coffee. I settled into the sofa and found myself, within minutes, riveted by the characters on the screen. The cadence of the dialogue, the dense, intricate dynamic of the people before me was wholely captivating. I witnessed a tender moment unlike I have ever witnessed in a motion picture that incited a compulsion to dissect these characters to their very core.

After expressing my thrill at what I'd just seen, Ed gave me a quick tutorial on Cassavetes and a book, John Cassavetes: lifeworks, which I sloshed through sloppily and half-way since Shadows was all I had seen.

Today I went looking for Cassavetes' films on DVD and found a fanastic site on the influential filmmaker and his works:
The John Cassavetes Pages

After moving, and money isn't so tight, I plan to slowly acquire all that I can find. Starting with the wonderful Shadows.

I've been infected again and it feels fine.

Discuss | 1 comment

Friday, July 19, 2002
12:23 p.m.
Since graduating from college I have upheld at least one of my intentions, which is pleasure reading. I swore, with every breath near finals time, that after the assigned reading was done for good I'd tear through as many and as varied texts as I wanted. Whatever I wanted.

I've started over a half-dozen new books since leaving school, and bought a dozen more. And what I've noted most about my selections is how influenced they were by my journalism education. I rarely read ficiton anymore. The truth is just way too terrific. One professor in specific, Dr. Badger, turned me onto literary journalism (Wolfe, Kidder, Dr. Gonzo and Shilts), as well as assigned the most hilarious book I've ever been required to read, A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail by Bill Bryson.

When I browsed the syllabus on the first day of classes and saw that this would be the book the class reviewed as a whole, I was hardly looking forward to it. I imagined dry, stodgy prose about nature and hiking and loving the land. Badger told us all the book was funny, but we'd heard his jokes and weren't convinced. Much to our delight, the book was indeed funny. Hell, I couldn't read the thing on a bus or at a coffee shop without drawing a lot of attention to myself, giggling and wiping away laughter-tears. Went down all too sweet that the book was also a fast read, the writer hurrying you right along with a genuine, down-to-earth tone. I particularly like it when writers gently speed their readers along, propelling them at the author's desired pace, all the while managing sparkling, poignant passages without intentionally, pretentiously, trying to bog the reader down.

Last night, just a few months after graduation I found myself surveying my bookshelf, and without hesitation, picking up A Walk in the Woods for a second time.

This is my recommended reading to those who were kind enough to suggest titles for me. And here are two excerpts, examples of why I'm reading this one again:

My particular dread

A moose is a cow drawn by a three-year-old.

Read any funny books lately? | 4 comments

take it from me
Thursday, July 18, 2002
08:42 p.m.

Yes. Yes, she is.

Apple made an ad featuring Ellen Feiss, a glassy-, red-eyed teenager struggling to keep her heavy eyelids open and form a coherent sentence. Man, like, her PC ate her paper, man. Man. It was pulled because people began to notice she seemed high.

I have to concur.

But I am fascinated by this ad, and how it made it so far into production. The ad had to have aired before audiences could react to the crunk girl on their television sets. How did this come about? How did no one--the director, editor, producer, the screeners, the ad agency--not notice that the girl was baked? None of these commercial-making guys ever smoked a little? Or seen their friends do it? She exhibits all the tell-tale signs of someone who has just rocked the ganj, and I don't mean that pat, stereotypical dialogue written for all adolescent characters, stoned or no. Christ, what about Ginsberg, or this guy. Just because this twit can't formulate a sentence doesn't mean other marijuana fans are illiterate, inarticulate high-schoolers. What I am talking about are the watery eyes, half-open, bloodshot as hell, coupled with the sense that she might burst out laughing at any moment. Was no one aware that this is plainly evident?

The other question is whether Apple is just playing dumb. Was the blazed Ellen intentional? Were they hoping to sneak it past everyone except the few in the know? The few are many, looks like.

Ah well, anyway, who am I to say? I know very little about this at all actually. I mean, man, I own a PC, man.

Discuss | 3 comments

P.S. Happy Birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.

and she would not meet my gaze
Tuesday, July 16, 2002
10:12 p.m.
Her blouse is cornflower blue, thin, with red hearts and country-style homes cross-stitched on the front panel, just above her breasts. She pushes cole slaw around in it's miniature bowl--staring through it and the table to the checked tile floor. Her sand-colored, practical bags sits, straps neatly folded in her lap. Beneath that her feet are also folded.

Her hair is short, stiff, gray cotton candy, a style she may have had for decades. Her powdery face is slack, her lids dangle over tiny, hard brown eyes. Her small, slumped frame is covered by tissue-paper skin--a network of blue veins looks like spilled blue ink over her bare hands and arms.

She sits, breathing shallowly, across from a man who eats his lunch unaware that she hasn't yet touched her's.

Discuss | 2 comments

a jump in logic
Friday, July 12, 2002
02:48 p.m.
I find myself, due to very private and saddening circumstances, to be leaving my current abode in search of a new temporary one. As has been mentioned here on occasion, I've grown stagnant of this muggy state and have every intention of following up graduation somewhere sunny or rainy or windy, but not humid. Atlanta would be cool and close and all, mom, you are right, but I can't bear the wet hot air of the South any longer. I weep inside for crisp, light air in my lungs. Perhaps air tinged with the salt of the sea or a grain of desert dust.

But, for now, here, idling in neutral, the fact is the lease is up and I'm out the door. Time to wander elsewhere in one place.

I've decided upon living alone. If I have to stay here for now I don't want to force someone else to live with what I might become. Plus, I love it. I lived alone one before and it was splendid fun. I watched most of the movies I've seen in that twelve months. I smoked box after box of cigarettes in front of my computer and let my dishes get dangerously high. I'd sometimes not come out for days, going through a load of pajamas and never once put on a pair of proper shoes. Some would call this sloth, I call it nirvana.

I opened up my local paper this morning and uncapped, gingerly, a red magic marker and got to work. Imagine my delight at finding ten or more efficiency apartments at or under $400 a month. I can live in squallor for that price and some fucking privacy, no problem. My phone is recharging now, but soon I'll be continuing making appointments to view the studios, some of which even include cable. I wasn't even going to bother with cable (just pester my friends into taping "Six Feet Under" and "Sex and the City" and "Adult Swim").

Most of them are twelve-month leases, which is a tad disheartening, but also gives me a nice round number with which to work. One year to fatten up my clip book, get some practical experience, save up some money and get more acquainted with the direction I might be tending toward. Less a delay, more of a primer. I looked into the Nashville area, but that would hinder the save money process, since rent is obviously higher, but god, the thought of another year at Outback is enough to make me want to destroy something beautiful. I suppose this is my motivation to earn money writing--or at least doing something that isn't kissing people's asses and cleaning up half-eaten food.

I, in spite of myself, am optimistic, even glad a little about what is is store for me from here on out. Everything sure does seem shiny and brand new. At least today anyway. And because of you.

Keep your hands, feet and shit inside the vehicle at all times. | 11 comments

Tuesday, July 9, 2002
08:55 p.m.
Always disconcerting to be doused with brown liquid upon opening the cap of a ball-point pen.

Discuss | 2 comments

I'm a lazy louse.
Sunday, July 7, 2002
11:39 p.m.
I find it difficult, as many of you do, I'm sure, to talk in any coherent manner about the people I meet and interactions I have on-line to those I know in real life. Yet, the people I converse with on-line are by far more interesting and charismatic and talented and genuine than the folks I'm physically surrounded by on a daily basis. I grow to have such affection and warmth for my on-line friends, that I want to share humorous instances or dialogue with real life pals.

Generally, they seem a little ill at ease by the very subject, and cock their head to one side and grin, not listening so as not to get any geek on them.

One of the many fantabulous people I've met on-line is Matthew Buzzell, director of the award-winning documentary Jimmy Scott: If You Only Knew. (An interview.) He graciously invited me to the screening at the Atlanta Film Festival that garnered him Winner of the Audience Choice award. I stupidly chose to work.

But if I've got even one reader in the LA area, I urge you to see the film Variety called poignant on Tuesday, July 16th at 7:30 p.m. at the American Cinemateque at the Egyptian Theatre since I was too dimwitted to attend when I had the chance. Jimmy Scott will be in attendance and there will be a celebration of his 77th birthday.

I'll tell Buzzell the Human Beatbox that I'm sending you as my substitute.

Discuss | 2 comments

secondary soul
Saturday, July 6, 2002
12:47 p.m.
I hear the speeding, pulsing of blood through foreign veins and slam shut the shades of another woman.

How did I get here, beneath thin skin and this wiry veil? These aren't my bones, my frame is stronger.

Discuss | 4 comments

the skinny
Wednesday, July 3, 2002
01:48 p.m.
(Photos of the Brooklyn trip are now up in the photo gallery.)

During the festival early this month, I made more than a few important contacts within the film and publishing industry, which made my hours worked ad nauseum, and for free of charge, worth it to me. In introducing myself to others, their first questions were always--what do you (want to) do? Some people thought I wanted to direct, or was an actress, and most seemed a bit disappointed, or rather disconcerted, that I said with great assurance "film criticism."

I'd done a bit of homework on which critics would be attending the festival and was looking forward to re-meeting local critic Jim Ridley, of whom I am a big fan. Concurrently, he is also the humblest sweetheart of a man. I knew The Tennessean guy would be there, but eh, so far, so not impressed. I did note however that Chuck Stephens, Asian Cinema Expert, and contributer to Film Comment would be in attendance as well as Edward E. Crouse, what I believed to be a stodgey old dude from the Villiage Voice. I made preparations to meet these gentleman with the intent to merely put my face in theirs, mention Jonathan Rosenbaum and hope I'd make any kind of impression. Well, Edward E. Crouse turned out to be 40 years less aged than I'd preconceived, and hovered near the bar I was tending at an after-party. The young like their drinks. Alongside him was his cohort, a partner in unreported crimes, no doubt, Chuck Stephens. The two of them are big buddies. I adopt these two over the course of the week and we spend our spare time hitting up the bars and talking Kael. I mention I'm looking to get the hell up out of Tennessee, and find work as a critic, which they both urge me to give up on the spot, but Ed offers up his room in NY to me anyway.

He is going to the Philipines to shoot a documentary and won't be back until October and offered me his spot. It seemed to be materializing before me--the golden oppurtunity I'd worked so hard for.

We exchanged numbers, addresses, hugs and promises and I slipped straight into believing I'd be Brooklyn bound by August. Sure I'd had a recent financial setback, but if I stepped it up to seven days a week, I could have enough money for the move. Plan was to find waitressing work in Manhattan right away and begin saving madly and getting comfortable with the city. Upon Ed's return in early October, I'd begin looking for my own new locale. I was pumped and even taking reservations for visitors who were green with envy I might be getting out.

I scrimped up enough cash to fly up for a few days to feel it all out, but in my mind, the deal was as much as sealed. This was my first, last and one-way ticket out of here.

I arrived in Brooklyn at the graffiti-tagged door of what I was so sure would be my future residence, a little dazed, enormously disoriented and trying like hell to ignore the cat calls I got while desperately trying to figure out which buzzer might be theirs. On the way out I met Dave, who seemed cordial, but in a hurry, but he directed me to the fourth floor. Ed met me in the hallway, all smiles and hugs and whisked me into the compact apartment. Upon first glance, the stacks of DVDs caught my attention--their numbers must be in the hundreds. The walls are haphazardly decorated with the likenesses of young black children, none looking much alike--photos I was told later they'd found on the street. Like the Schlitz Malt Liquor light and trick-or-treat Jesus picture. The place had definite charm and I began looking at it as a home. Ed and I climbed onto the rooftop, in the rain, via a ricketty fire escape he informs me is illegal according to safety standards, but the view is breathtaking. Even on the roof in New York, one must adjust to it's vertical horizon, everything feels immediate, because you cannot see more than a block away. Snatches of sky are all you see and the shadows seem artificial or absent. I spent a lot of time looking up at the sky to get my sense of direction.

Ed and I went to the Film Forum to see Kiss Me, Stupid and to a dive bar called The International that takes its name, from what I can gather, from the inflatable globes hanging from the tin ceiling, and shot tequila.

The next day we hoofed it around Chinatown looking for a copy of some film I can't remember that he was introducing this week. All the while I am looking forward to becoming yet another new citizen of the capital of the world.

That night we attend some party put on by an independent art house, I think, where the people were pretty and the toilet covered in cocaine. I met artists, young professionals, students and bohemians that night and not one of them had a job. Everyone seemed to be struggling just to survive. They'd gotten degrees from Yale and Columbia and Berkeley and had to get up early the next morning to take a proofreading test for a temp agency. They all issued the same caveat: Stay home unless you already have secured yourself a job. I asked about the service industry, the rate for waitresses, and the reply was crushing. Serving is more than just a skill in the city, it is a profession. Work in that feild is just as hard to find as any.

Slowly, sadly, I began to realize that a move at this juncture wouldn't be responsible. It would be suicide. I barely have a degree and scant experience or publications. I'll need to establish myself somewhere less cut-throat, less savage than NYC, though I'll be damned if I am doing it here. I'm still heading out of this hole, people, but it will require baby steps, I'm afraid. Or at least not a shotgun, unplanned replanting in America's most unforgiving city.

It is a disappointment. It just is. A budding dream has been stamped out by the cruel boot of reality, but it's best I'm sure.

Besides, the west coast is more my speed. I'm thinking LA, the Bay Area or Seattle. Make it anywhere but here.

Discuss | 22 comments


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somewhat daily reading
metafilter | myfi
sweat flavored gummi
deep blue day
britney blog
i must...
mighty girl
edgeling's infinite ocean
rabbit blog
neil gaiman's journal
little. yellow. different.
cockeyed absurdist

et alterum
twin peaks gazette
apt. 121 | aireline
rotten tomatoes
mr. cranky
mass transit

get around much: