not-so-daily pic

I am full
and choosing to be full
I'm on a boat, I'm in a lake,
I'm with the water, I think I see the moon, I touch the sky
and I'm with you
I'm with you

and how long would it take
if we were trapped in elevator
after the earthquake
five stories under debris
you and me in the garden indefinitely

after 10 hours were thinking about food
we lost our voices from shouting, and screaming
and crying and singing and being really crude
my tummy rumbles but there's no guitar
so we have sex instead and we go so far
and we do that for days
til we're knee deep in cum
dehydrated, exhausted, insane aquarium
I'm with you... I am with you

and how long would it take
if we were trapped in an elevator
after the earthquake five stories under debris
you and me in the garden indefinitely

and I remember the hunger from the last time,
still hear I remember the hunger
and I remember the hunger from the last time,
still hear I remember the hunger

this could go one of two ways
Hollywood rescue or bodies and bouquets
found after 3 months
smiling and bloated
the colors were great
the smells they were quoted and I'm with you ... I am with you
I'm with you ...

so I'm am full
I'm choosing to be full

-Sheila Nicholls, "Elevator"

Validate its existence.

Sites Outside the Site

Let's see your spritz do that.
Sunday, January 26, 2003
03:08 p.m.
I use an arsenal of products to create curls out of this frizz that constitutes hair, one of which is mousse. My favorite thing about mousse is that as it dries, it snaps and pops like a bowl of Rice Krispies near my ear. Magic, crackling hair products. Neat.


my bad
Sunday, January 26, 2003
01:58 p.m.
I once ran over my sister with a car. Yes, I did. Given, it wasn't a large or particularly heavy car, but a big ole real car was driven atop her. By me.

On accident. Naturally. I had been given a tan, not faceless biege, but Tan Mercury Lynx, which, if you'll throw back a good decade is a notch down from a Ford Escort. Same car maker, even shittier economy car. And that shit was old,too. Had over one hundred thousand miles on it when I got it, I think, and one had to master a laborious and intricate series of foot movements in order to get the damn thing in gear. I can now drive anything, my father rationalized, and he's right, I guess, if anything is junker, hatchback compact cars. Junker, hatchback cars are my bitches, 'tis true.

My 15-year-old sister who later became far too cool (what with her sneaking out to smoke cigarettes all the time with a confused homosexual and an adult woman with two kids and a house full of truly repugnant-smelling pets) to ride up in the Lynx of Love. Yet her ass didn't want to be seen near a school bus, so she begged rides from me. I think maybe there was a clause wherein I was forced to drive my sister home. Regardless, we both hated every minute, she hiding in the backseat, embarrassed and ashamed of the Little Tan Van.

This incident was pre-that, when she was still thrilled not to have to ride the cheese wagon to classes. It was winter and the windows were icy and the girl volunteered to scrape the ice from the windsheild, all excited about it and shit. So she was out there getting her scrape on and I'm blaring Little Earthquakes at top fucking volume because "so you can make me cum, that doesn't make you Jesus," and all the sudden bitch is rapping on the windsheild with the scraper and I think she might even crack it, so I scream back assorted profanities, but the windsheild is still icy so I can't see that she is in intense pain.

Apparently, the Lynx slipped into neutral and parked on Amy's foot. I cringe, still, when I think of how much that must have hurt. Once I turned the CD off to ask her "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?" I realize what I've done. Paniced, I put the car in reverse and back up, at which time the tires roll forward off Amy's now purpleing foot and back over it. She hops, I believe, inside the house where she whines and cries and acts like I fucking ran over her with a car or something.

Amy got balloons from me, a pair of crutches, a shitload of sympathy from my mother, a day off school and maybe even a few covered chores. I got a lifetime of, "That's nothing, Brittney ran over me once with her piece of shit car."


my own meta post
Saturday, January 25, 2003
01:46 p.m.
me: you got linked to by Gawker?!
me: why the link though? they just link to comments about them?
dong resin: yes
me: *remember to link to gawker*
dong resin: hehe
dong resin: hey, ya like the spiffy new menus? menui?
me: ooh, lemme look

me: they look pretty great
me: it is killer
dong resin: I'll hate it by next week
me: first tries usually aren't so good
dong resin: I do nothing but commune with bloggers... I don't know why I didn't do this sooner

[Here there is lots and lots more talk of blogging, mention of how good this new find is, an exchange about the inevitablility of comments for his site, so just get them already, and more blog talk. I believe there was even blogger name-dropping, but I can't commit to that.]

me: oh my god
me: read it back
me: this chat
me: it's soooo...bloggified
me: we are so cloaked in it
dong resin: *gasps*
dong resin: YOU DID THIS TO ME
me: we are name dropping bloggers!!!
dong resin: BLOGGER-WHORE
me: [this is sad]
dong resin: *claws at skin*
get it off! GET IT OFF
me: (p.s. this is getting blogged)


cool enough
Saturday, January 25, 2003
01:28 p.m.
My neighbor in #4 always runs, never walks up the stairs and points out to friends that visit that she likes my doormat. Only rarely do they disagree.

[Inspired by goneill.]


Oooh, snap!
Thursday, January 23, 2003
03:41 p.m.
I am unsure about how difficult it is to find a copy, but Ginger Snaps, a direct-to-video teen horror flick, is fucking badass. It's campy, funny, gory, self-aware, thoughtful and brave. It's feminist implications are overt yet farcical. The movie takes pains to fill out the roundest of characters, fully capturing the anguish that comes with teenaged girldom.

Here, better yet, I wrote a proper review:

It could be said that the topic and depiction of menstruation in major modern cinema is sadly nearly non-existent. It could too be said that the mere mention of a woman’s cycle in conversation had by gender-mixed company is, perhaps, unadvisable. Most people are acutely aware menstruation occurs, and take little issue with it as such. But mention “bloody tampon” to your buddies over a beer and watch them freak right on out.

Menstruation carries with it a stigma, which results from ignorance, which results in fear. Which is why the horror genre has the most movies with menstrual cycles as a primary element, films like Neil Jordan’s “A Company of Wolves” or De Palma’s classic “Carrie.” And no horror film in history has explored or exploited that fear as much as the terrific, pitch-black “Ginger Snaps.” Unfortunately, the film’s release date in 2001 coincided with the tragic Columbine school shootings—that, and marred marketing—has kept this whip-smart, highly humorous horror picture preposterously under seen. Director John Fawcett, this his first feature, and his wife Karen Walton crafted a wry and cerebral script, stuffed it full of camp and complex characters, managing a fantastically clever retelling of the oft-covered lore of the werewolf.

Morose, teenaged sisters Brigitte and Ginger are bored of their miserable suburban lives, combating the mundane by staging and photographing their extravagant suicides. Impalement on a white picket fence (imagery also found in Sophia Coppala’s dark comedy of the same vein, “The Virgin Suicides”), death by lawnmower, cheeks stuffed with pills, slit throats. The girls have been doing this for years, since their pact at 8 years old: Out by sixteen or dead in this scene. (“It’ll be the shit, B. Trust me.”) The sisters are one year apart in age, Ginger being the eldest, and more physically developed of the pair. Adeptly performed by Katherine Isabelle, Ginger is the dominant and beautiful sister, and the first to get “the curse.” In fact, she achieves menarche for the first time near the woods at night, and it is the fresh, new blood (shown on screen, too—a brave move) that attracts a dog-mauling monster that has been terrorizing the community to attack her. The adrenal assailment results not in the death of a tattered Ginger, but in her transformation. Hair begins sprouting in suspicious spots, she acquires a little extra on her behind (namely, a tail), and her canine teeth grow long and sharp.

Younger, sulking sister Brigitte (a fine, muted performance by stage actress Emily Perkins), and Sam (Kris Lemche), the drug-slinging chemist kid who killed the viscous animal with his van after it mangled Ginger, search for a cure for what ails the morphing Ginger, who has taken to roughing up some of the neighborhood dogs with her new claws. The werewolf infection (it can be passed along sexually or by blood) has turned Ginger, who days before swam beneath layers of baggy clothing, into a seductive predator with a pronounced penchant for meat. Just after puking blood in the toilet, Ginger explains, “I get this ache and I thought it was for sex, but it’s to tear everything to fucking pieces,” then farcically hiccups to punctuate.

It’s that knowing, tongue-in-cheek dialogue--found outright in the movie’s title (Ginger snaps, you see. Her last name is Fitzpatrick.)--that keeps the flick flowing at a brisk, timely pace. The writers nailed the vernacular of misanthropic adolescents, reminiscent of the similarly droll “Heathers” or a decidedly darker “Say Anything,” which is a difficult feat yet excellent on execution. Wiry, gray hairs pierce Gingers smooth, rounded shoulder and her response to it is hilariously matter-of-fact, “I can’t have a hairy chest, B. That’s fucked up!”

The feminist implications of Ginger Snaps are plenty. Ginger’s transformation from girl to beast is an obvious metaphor for puberty, but beyond that the film explores femininity as directly attributing to violence and destruction. Fear of womanhood--fear of the power that existing within the female form entails--are what the Fitzpatrick sisters have been delaying for a long time. And why shouldn’t they? Their mother Pamela, expertly played by a sexless and sterile Mimi Rogers, is overprotective, yet oblivious to the metamorphosis occurring within her home. The girls’ notion of female adulthood is ignoring a subservient husband and creating a façade of a life well lived from bargains buys from the craft store.

“Ginger Snaps” suffers in its final 20 minutes by resorting to cliché and formula. But far worse could be said of a straight-to-video high school horror picture. In fact, the final scene of the film is so intelligent and open-ended that the quick-cutting climax is, by then, virtually overlooked. This delightfully twisted and unconventional, widely undiscovered gem takes a bloody bite out of convention, forcing its viewers to recognize the harshest evil of this wicked world: growing up girl.

Tell me what you think.

specifically for those without
Thursday, January 23, 2003
04:33 a.m.
A little something for you. (jacked from jones. ufez jones.)

Create your own and post the URL below (send the saved version to yourself to acquire URL).


big time, babies
Wednesday, January 22, 2003
10:22 p.m.
One of my winter photos is included in's Winter Slide Show (Click Winter Slide Show II, then First Photo, then Last Photo 3 times to quickly find mine).


Wednesday, January 22, 2003
06:55 p.m.
It's happening again.

Snow from the front door.


I know I am a little late, but...
Wednesday, January 22, 2003
01:57 p.m.
Answers and info for those who came here in search of them:

To the guy who was looking for "reasons to be against cannibas [sic]",

There are none. Even those new anti-drug commercials fully illustrate this. You know the one where the guy gives his girl friend marijuana, and she gets all blazed and then they fuck? See? Pot gets you laid.

To the dude looking for a "Drunk Jennifer Love Hewitt naked",

Give it time. End of the year, tops. Then try your search again. I forsee success on the second attempt.

To whomever came in search of information regarding "coffee masking the smell of cocaine",

Cocaine smells? No, see, what you smell is the disintegration of your teeth to dust as you grind them franticly and the stench of burned cash and nose hairs. Incense works best to mask these odors. Something in vanilla.


Tuesday, January 21, 2003
03:57 p.m.
Sometimes when I am writing--really furiously penning--I crave a cigarette like at no other time. So I cut a straw the length of a cigarette and suck on one end, wishing I could hear the fire burn back tobacco at the other, and blow invisible wisps of smoke above my head.


high-tech rednecks
Tuesday, January 21, 2003
01:34 p.m.
For a restaurant that hand writes orders on 3-ply carbon paper and uses a computer to ring items that resembles the ones used in McDonald's (in the 80s), I am tickled that my Outback has a clean, user-friendly little web site. Todd, our newest member of the ever-changing management team is a web head who creates the schedule in spreadsheets and notes your tardies and such in his Palm Pilot.

You can make schedule requests via the site, which I would link to here if I didn't think I'd have an unplanned two-week vacation coming up thanks to my readers. (And I trust that you all won't call any of these numbers or send in prank requests for people, because if you did that I would have to kick myself for not listening to my first instinct and not blogging this, but how neat! You can even see some Christmas party pictures taken by Todd and his phatty digital camera.)

Being able to see when I work without calling and disrupting the Administrative Assistant who says she doesn't mind in a tone that emphasizes just how very much she minds is super duper. You know I dig this the most.


of all
Monday, January 20, 2003
01:17 p.m.
These are my personal favorites of all the photographs I've taken:

one, two, three, four, five


dreaming drunk
Sunday, January 19, 2003
11:20 a.m.
No martini ever has been or will be as light and delectable as the one I was sipping just now when my alarm went off.

I just rolled out of bed, on a Sunday, and now I've got a hankering for some very, very dry vodka. I'd put my morning coffee in a martini glass if I had one.


new for old
Sunday, January 19, 2003
01:40 a.m.
I've revised the somewhat daily reading list. Some names have dropped off, but you should really enjoy the new additions. I spent some time tonight preening the assemblage of bloggers (and others) and followed this very simple criteria: the folks at right are good and consistently so. I hope you'll give them each a click-through sometime when your bored and looking for a laugh or a dash of unexpected insight.

The new additions and reasons why they are there:

exploding dog [reasons: 1, 2, 3, 4]

defective yeti [reasons: 1, 2, 3]

sarah hepola [reasons: 1, 2, 3]

april winchell [reason: "But now I hear that David Spade is romantically linked to Daryl Hannah. And that's just too much. Even for me. And I'm on pain killers...But this woman had sex with John Kennedy, Jr., for God's sake. Do you see what I'm getting at here? She was with him, and this is the follow-up. How does that happen? It's like having filet mignon for dinner and a fruit roll up for dessert."]


various sentences and truisms
Saturday, January 18, 2003
12:38 p.m.
Stream of consciousness:

I buy a particular brand of body wash because it smells like I remember baby aspirin tasted as a kid.

Going back and reading archived writing of mine on the internet from way on back in the day on a Saturday night makes me embarrassed and depressed.

There is a blue convertible that holds a man and his daughter and the hush secret of what he's done and will do.

Drew can be mean, but is more often funny.

There they were. More than a dozen Winged Monkeys sitting on chairs with their arms folded and legs crossed, arguing with Fleming over money.

Bitten nails are unattractive and more noticeable than I think.

I'd hide in the bathroom for you any ol' time.

I haven't the faintest concept of what it is to grieve.

Exciting prospect in the works.


Viva la Revolution!
Thursday, January 16, 2003
12:26 p.m.

Dedicated to the revolution of youth culture personified in Avril Lavigne.

[I *heart* the interweb.]


white stuff
Thursday, January 16, 2003
11:38 a.m.
It snowed! And lots! (Photo Gallery)



Reasons I might not like you:
Wednesday, January 15, 2003
01:58 p.m.
-you wear a t-shirt on your pubescent chest that denotes you "Princess" or "Boy Breaker"
-you cut your entire steak into bite-sized pieces before you take a bite
-you don't use your blinker (Really now. That is fucking lazy in the worst way.)
-you hammer on my roof
-you are late
-you insist on ordering right away at the restaurant, right this instant, then point to your companion and tell them to "Go ahead. Order first."
-you assume I share your prejudices
-you mention that my booty is "phat", "thick", or "ghetto"
-you think you know what is best for me
-you make fun of where I'm from (Only I do that. And others from this backward ass hick town.)
-you bogart
-you call acid house, jungle, progressive trance, down-tempo and shoegaze "techno"
-you call me three times but never leave a message
-you say "prolly," instead of "probably"
-you ignore your children
-you think Kevin Smith is the greatest director of our time
-you abuse your authority
-you call your professor a "prof" or your social security number your "soc.", speaking only the first syllable because you are just so busy
-you think your every move is miraculous and everything is "honestly, literally, the best, most life-changing thing ever."
-you smell unwashed
-you put less than $5 in your gas tank when you have plenty of money
-you feel the need to sing and dance all the damn time (Quit singing! Stand still!)
-you ask me what I'm reading while I'm reading
-you are male and wear a visor
-you are female and wear your pants to purposely show your carefully chosen thong
-you discuss the finer points of the waitress' thigh to your buddy in front of your girlfriend
-you don't mean what you say
-you know where Miguel Cardoso is but you aren't talking


Ladies and gentleman...
Wednesday, January 15, 2003
12:37 a.m.
...prepare the bleach for thine eyes.

Dong_resin blogs.

(Update: Dong's new, Philip Glass-esque weblog has since inspired this. Ryan did it.)


Tuesday, January 14, 2003
03:57 p.m.
My day just got a shade brighter.


well, fuck me
Tuesday, January 14, 2003
01:52 p.m.
So, I'm smack dab in the middle of one of those days. Two or more men with hammers started in on the roof at 8:30 this morning, just like every morning, except that one guy who is usually up there by himself brought his goddamn band along. I blearily put on whatever CD was in my drive and cranked it way up, real pissed off-like. Suffice to say, Tori's latest album, while admirable, ain't the best way to lull oneself to sleep amdist the banging of tools overhead, so I dreamt a little fitfully. Something about navigating a purple dragon boat down a raging river.

Just under two hours later, Hammer and Friends are back.

[Also, as much as I love me some boys, I'll never, never figure them out. Never ever.]


do yourself this little favor
Monday, January 13, 2003
04:17 p.m.
Watch Daniel lose his damn mind on The Price is Right.

You must do it.


up and out
Friday, January 10, 2003
10:54 p.m.
I've taken two weekend days off. A rare treat. Soon as I finish up here I'm driving to the suburbs of Nashville to crash with the sister. Gonna see Adaptation first thing tomorrow since it opened tonight--finally. At 3 the Titans compete in the playoffs, and since I haven't watched a game all season, I figure I owe them one. After we cream Pittsburgh, I'm gonna be hanging out with the girlfriends downtown in celebration of two recent birthdays. Ashley used to work at The Wildhorse so we may go there first for comped drinks and food. I've never been before, big surprise, so it'll be a new, boot-scootin' experience. New, completely perfect camera will be in tow.

Expect sundry photos upon my return. And while I'm gone, let's look alive people. I want you to each leave the most bizarre, arbitrary, purposeless comment you can come up with on the fly. I wish to be thoroughly puzzled when I get back.

Oh, and keep an eye on Rita for me while I'm away. See to it she doesn't get lonely.


Randomness here.

why i like guy friends
Friday, January 10, 2003
01:37 p.m.
Mark: Sometimes I miss my wallet chains. I wore that sucker waaaaayy past its prime. People used to bust on my chains all the time. But to me, the chain made sense. Never once lost my wallet.

~boys reminisce~

Mark: I miss the ching, ching against my thigh.

Theron: Man, that is kind of perverse.

Mark: It was like wearing spurs.

Aaron: But when you went through airport security and you had to put that huge motherfucker up there in the tiny plastic holder--it was embarrassing.

Mark: No way, man.


face forward
Friday, January 10, 2003
12:25 a.m.
I just saw my face in the spittle-specked bathroom mirror beneath the dark of the burned out bulb. My eyes were dark and slack, much like my jawline. The yellowish skin looked thin and shiny, my hair pulled taut against my skull.

I looked for a long, long time and was able to warp forward thirty-five years and saw, with clarity, what I'll look like graying and sixty.

I tell ya, I can wait.


here it is, your moment of zen
Thursday, January 9, 2003
03:13 a.m.
Right click to save, open with player of your preference.


need a ride?
Thursday, January 9, 2003
02:57 a.m.
I heard that "Pretty Baby" song on the radio for the first time this evening and almost started clapping that I might not have to hear that "Ordinary Boy" ditty any more. You know, if Vanessa Carlton's lyrics were just a shade less precious, I might actually consider listening to more of her stuff.

Well, only if I never had to hear those first two freakin' singles on the radio, that is. Which I won't come March 1. Because that is when my fucking kickass mom (Mom wouldn't mind at all that description, I don't think. And on a completely unrelated note, I find it highly humorous that when I ask my mother whether or not she reads this weblog, she says, with a poker-straight face, "Sometimes.") is giving me the super cute, oddly green-colored Nissan 200SX she's been driving. It once belonged to my sister (Amy, I know, I suck.) and it has a CD player! And powersteering! And for fuck's sake a moon roof! I've got a roof for the moon!!

So totally not worthy.

And I'm never, ever gonna have to settle on Puddle of Mud as the best of the various ClearChannel musical offerings ever again.


what isn't
Thursday, January 9, 2003
12:30 a.m.
The Murfreesboro Ruby Tuesday's has this phenomenal happy hour. 2-for-1 on house wines and a whole bunch of other stuff, but 2 for 1 on wine! Hard deal to pass up.

So I'm working six days a week to save for my eventual move, and on my days off I drive by the Ruby Tuesday's and consider it, cause really, wine is like a good, hot bath.

But what if, I think, I have two 2-for-1 wines and get all loosey-goosey and talk to some random guy holding a lite beer. Not that I would even truly be into that sort of thing, chatting up some bar patron, but four wines is greater than a bottle and well, do I really need to elaborate?

Then, alternately, I can almost taste the merlot on my tongue. And so what? He could be cool. He could have gotten a gift certificate for Christmas to this awful fern bar and he was starving and what the hell? 2-for-1 lite beers.

But what are the chances really? That there would be an actual cool guy at a Ruby Tuesday's on a Wednesday at 7:30 p.m.

I consider the buy one get one free wine again though, and laugh for considering boys when there is wine to be drunk. But girls by themselves at a bar with 2-for-1 happy hours don't get left alone. They get drunk and silly and do shit they shouldn't and then they end up saying to their girlfriends, head lowered, "We met at a Ruby Tuesdays. 2-for-1 happy hour, you know?"

And so I never go in.


original recipe
Tuesday, January 7, 2003
11:44 p.m.
Upon deliberate and intensive pontification, I have absolutely surmised that the very worst way to go, the most horrifying of all, would be to be deep-fried alive.

(And though you'd be dead and not caring, jon, given his penchant for notoriously heinous culinary combinations, would probably find you crispy and good with catsup.)

[Hey, I've extended the contest for two more weeks. Doesn't end til February 2. You may now return to "Joe Millionaire."]

Think of a worse way?

Tuesday, January 7, 2003
04:19 a.m.
An exchange from tonight:

me, grubbing on lemon chicken: Do not present your ass to me while I am eating.

travis, looking toward the window: I'm gonna get some ghetto-fabulous curtains. (pause) Something with pleats.


damn fine
Monday, January 6, 2003
11:53 p.m.
[Click either photo to see the entire gallery.]

Today I had lunch by myself at the Red Rose, the coffee shop I mentioned that is now open all the time. I brought my camera along and got over the fear of looking pretentious and just went ahead and looked pretentious and took some photos.

The organic Brazilian frech press coffee was sublime, the chicken salad salad was loaded with veggies, grapes and walnuts, and the scary guy who usually bothers me to death wasn't there, so things were aces.

I was able to get some actual people in my photos--those I don't know--which is rare for me since I get all shy about it. Then my buddy Shane, a born entrepreneur, came in and kept me company. Overall, better than a peanut butter sandwich at home in front of the computer. And that is saying something.


Monday, January 6, 2003
01:41 p.m.
Christians for Cannibas

Water into wine? Okay. But what about this sage?



window shopping
Monday, January 6, 2003
01:35 p.m.
Don't you think this lunchbox would make a snazzy companion for one I already own?



I feel like a contest, so let's have one. I'll make the rules very simple.

All you have to do to win is write me a letter convincing me that you should. The best letter writer will recieve a goodie box and handmade card compiled by yours truly. I love doing that sort of shit, and am quite good at it, so the prize is totally worth your time.

There are no requirements of any kind, except that you mail your letter to And remember, I'm doing this because I am bored, so entertaining trumps pleading.

Good luck, participants. The contest ends February 2nd.

Discuss (23)


shutter to think: photos
currently reading
suggest reading
recommend a movie

will work for ______

resume (hire me!)


aim: miscetcmiscetc (often)
icq: 125288105 (rarely)

webcam status: on

somewhat daily reading

metafilter | myfi
sweat flavored gummi
deep blue day
anil dash
mighty girl
elf radio
rabbit blog
little. yellow. different.
cockeyed absurdist
mimi smartypants
bottom dwelling
here i type
que sera sera
dong resin's joint
exploding dog
defective yeti
sarah hepola
april winchell
total viscosity breakdown
the subastral lilipad

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

get around much: