i made this tiny movie
before i go
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Here they are: International Pho/Gimlet Meet-Up Day photos
And as an extra-special bonus, I give the ladies out there this short, very dark video of my friends Jay (of Apollo Up) and Jeremy (of Mercator)* attempting to devise a way for Jay, hypothetically, to pleasure Jeremy anally and orally at the same time. While clever, ultimately Jay's proposal is impossible. Anyway, right click and save the video I've so fittingly named fuckchair.avi.
* It is only fair to note that both these guys dig girls.
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
I suck. I haven't updated in what seems like a month of Sundays, but I have some pretty decent excuses for my absense. Okay, make that one: I'm away at camp.
Reviews and stories and International Pho/Gimlet Meet-Up Day pictures (even a video!) and midly funny anecdotes
where have I been?
No, seriously. Tell me.
P.S. Yesterday I rode (like 5 miles!) a real bike with gears and everything for the first time ever. The last time I rode a bike I used its pedals to brake. And not so very well, either, since the last time I rode a bike I also broke my arm. Seems a nasty break will put you off a bicycle for a good fifteen, sixteen years. If you are a total pussy, like me. Anyway, yeah. Yesterday I went from unable to even properly mount a bicycle, much less make it go, to totally keeping one up and free of children in the spokes. And since I went riding on busy streets and beside rivers and over railroads I consider myself justified in telling you that, just in case you didn't know, bikes totally bruise your crotch. Kinda like you've had your kitten punched retarded.*
Two espressos back to back is exhilarating and nauseating and overwhelming and even though my pulse is practically lifting me from this chair I will down two espressos back to back again and again because right now everything is incredibly right with the world.
She sometimes can't hear anything over the slamming of her heart in her neck.
She cuts the insides of her lips with her teeth. Lets the hot water stream into her mouth to fill the tiny wounds. She's in the shower, running.
stacatto and utterly worthless capsule reviews
Lately I've seen:
The Ring - Almost scary. Just about creepy. A little bit unnerving. That kid is pretty freaky, though. Interesting visuals no doubt lifted from the original, "Ringu." Ending abrupt and uninteresting. (I intially thought the finale was brilliant, but I've since discovered I was overthinking it-let's discuss with spoilers clearly labeled in the discuss forum.)
Secretary - Wow. Super-fucking good. A lot. One of the most romantic films I've seen in ages. Incredibly engaging. Titillating without ever being gratuitous. Incredibly stylized. Places you in a world, a room, really, that is uniquely extraordinary. Angelo Badalamenti scores. Fascinating look at a struggle for love and power, and how that struggle can manifest itself inversely. Rent today.
28 Days Later - Really fucking fast zombies. I thought zombies lumbered. There was viscious blood puking. That ruled. And it was awfully exciting. The screen was seemingly saturated with dark color. The movie had a very silvery quality. Made my heart race. Ending a total disappointment, but who cares I was thrilled for two solid hours. And there was lots of male nudity and not a single breast. Love that.
Down there blades bend under the weight of her palm.
But one of the Forbes twins had it at his desk. He sat right beside me openly flipping the pages as we waited for our teacher. I caught a long, hard glimpse of a woman, squatting, her legs splayed, her chest bare. Besides my mom and sister and me I had never seen a nude female before. And I was thoroughly repulsed. I hated the look on her face--it scared me. I was frightened to death of ever looking like that woman. Her breasts were enormous and bulbous, while my mother's were much more modest. I saw a thicket of dark pubic hair, a long red fingernail in her painted mouth, and quietly freaked out right there in my desk.
Funny how things change.
swear to god
Maybe 15 minutes later a middle-aged guy who was chewing a toothpick asked me to make him a margarita. His eye constantly twitched. As he was pulling bills from his wallet he goes, "Let me ask you something, can I brang my computer I just found in the yard up here and plug it in and use it?"
I played dumb. "Your computer you just found?"
"Somebody left a dern computer out in the yard, and I don't care if it is old or broke or whatever, we'll fix it."
I politely told him all our outlets were full and asked how would he use it without a keyboard. He hadn't thought of that.
But I had a group of girlfriends, 4 or 5 of them even*, and they were pretty and popular so I was on the cusp of cool. Ya know, by proxy. But I didn't have the long bangs to curl up into a pristine, feathered bang blossom atop my head (my bangs looked more like two long hot dogs--one long, brown curl on top, another curled under on the bottom), and so, obviously, no boys liked me.
And what did I care? I liked a Man. I honed any snobbery skills I may have in seventh grade. I fancied myself far smarter than all the rest--this was a mask I tried on, like any other, however, it fit better and so it stuck. If you believe it, they believe it and so it was. I became the smart girl.
The Man I liked taught my geography class. He was the first male teacher I ever had. He allowed extra credit, as well as my favor, and in his course I held a grade of 102. My crowning achievement. I was sure my sky-high marks were why I was invited to be his morning assistant, where I spent an hour three times a week labelling video tapes, grading, and flirting. Sometimes we would just talk and we'd crumple up bits of paper and stuff them in one another's socks.
Late in the spring the class given a blank map of the United States and were instructed to fill in every state and it's respective capital. I'd studied hard for this one, mastering those square, Midwestern trip-ups, and was horrified to learn I'd scored a 97. When he handed back the exams I was clearly upset.
The next day he announced to the class that there would be a retest. The higher of the two scores would stand. I restested and scored perfectly, my 102 still firmly in place.
Now that some time has passed, I wish he'd let the 97 stand. Because I think about that day now, from time to time, and about how it made me feel so small, so child-like, when before I felt so very grown up.
*We had a club. The D.Y.C.G. The Daring, Young, Courageous Girls. And code names. Mine was Skeeter.
conversely, i can relate
bizzare email I just recieved
blonde and blonder
Anyway, I'm working these kinds of hours because every, single bartender but myself, and this new girl Jenny, asked off for the entire weekend of the 4th. On Saturday, Miss Jenny headed to the lake. Two of the male bartenders now probably still up and drunk at this hour are on vacation, and paid two girls from other area Outbacks to cover their respective shifts. A please and a fifty dollar bill (each) was all it took.
Now, working with two totally strange people on a Saturday night is kinda scary. I mean, at the very least it's gonna be weird. They don't know where anything is--there are so many questions--no matter how much is the same, there are still so many differences. I was just beat and not looking forward to it, but was slated the first to be sent home and kept, what I considered to be, a fine attitude about the situation. Considering.
So, I had this delicious double-latte before work expecting us to be slammed since Fourth of July's bar shift left much to be desired in the patronage department. But, we weren't slammed. We were slow trickled. I stood there nervously chewing my jaw and detailing the stainless steel, growing ever nervous about meeting the new gals. I made a dollar-fifty before the fill-in bartenders arrived.
Around the corner and to my surprise, strode Blonde and Blonder. The first to enter was lean, really pretty (in a Faith Hill kind of way), and blonde--with long hair that had been straightened--I could later see the hair at her temples bending and curling in the heat. The other girl was a true sight to behold: hair nearly white, Kelly Bundy's color, all piled on top of her head in a devil-may-care disarray. They both confronted me at once, and to be honest Blonder looked like she'd just done a fat rail, or something. Her eyes were wide, her blue pupils real itty-bitty, and her upper lip was curled up and tight against her lip in this sort of teeth-baring sneer. We said our hellos and they sashayed back to the restroom turning the heads of the teenaged bussers. I fielded questions from curious servers until the girls arrived back about 10 minutes later where a crowd of employees had gathered to await their arrival. They stepped behind the bar and began curiously looking around. They studied the coolers, and taps, and prices and poilcies for a while, catching on pretty quickly to where things stay. I briefed them on basic operating procedures, and then we waited.
No one was sitting down. I headed to the little girl's room for a brief respite, and came back to an enthusiastic game of Tic-Tac-Toe. They were giggling and, I believe, hopping up and down, hurriedly adding their X or O, disappointed each time when it ended in a draw. This is because that game is meant for 2nd graders. Tic-Tac-Toe has long since not been a challenge to anyone who can successfully read chapter books. A third and final game, however, did end in a winner, and to my horror the first of many, many over-head double high-fives was executed.
Where I work, tickets for the kitchen are hand-written and turned in by hand, as well. Bartenders cannot feasibly leave the bar every time a food ticket goes back, so while I'm making a server's drink they turn in the ticket for us. Or, we flag one of them down, and ask very nicely. Some of us do, anyway. Blonder though had a unique approach. She'd rise onto her tiptoes, wave the ticket high above her hair and ask, "Who wants to be a team player?" The collective chin drop from the server gallery was pricless.
Next thing I know I've been recruited for a game of Hangman. I'd rather not have been. Blonder decided to create the puzzle and draw the hanged man, while Blonde and I guessed letters from the alphabet. I went first. I chose 'S'. Blonde chose 'T'. I chose 'M'. Blonde chose 'N'. See where this is going? I chose 'L' and sure as shit Blonde took a full 30 seconds to come up with a letter on her own, not subsequent to mine.
After pouring a couple of drafts I returned to the game and remembered the objective: solve the damn puzzle. So far we had:
I remembered Blonder giggling to herself when she was making the marks for the puzzle. She was pleased with her phrase of choice and maybe even said something about it being "a good one."
It was "No Rules, Just Right." The goddamn Outback slogan. I opted to solve the puzzle, relieving myself of any obligation to play. Blonde, stunned, said, "How'd you do that?"
That is when new music kicked in, something dancable, at which time--prepare yourself--the girls began switch-kicking their feet in time to the music, clapping their hands over their heads. Together. Syncronized and shit. I had stumbled into freaking cheerleading camp.
8:30 rolled around and the bar was still pretty dead, so the manager graciously let me go home. Which was a relief, as moments earlier "Shake it, girl." and "Work it, sister" were exclaimed loud enough for the entire bar to hear. They were talking to me. I think they thought I was deaf.
Today is shift eight of nine. With Jenny. Whose modesty and dry sense of humor and light brown ponytail I will appreciate with every fiber of my being.
where she goes at night
She's now off having cat whisker wine in a reclining chair, watching the yard blossom with sequiny fish bellies.
Count on them yelling out "FREE BIRD!" and shit while the symphony is warming up. Ten to one there'll be a mass prayer. They will have Junior hold the Bud Light while they lift up their candle with the little, paper wax catcher around it to God, and to Manifest Desinty, and to Our President, Amen.
I shouldn't be so cruel, or else I perpetuate a negative stereotype about southerners. Thing is, no one in their right mind (<- key phrase!) would ever go to Riverfront Park for on July 4th. No sane, non-hillbilly people want to sit in two hours of traffic to squat by the stinky river and have their eardrums exploded by all the goddamn noise, and sure the fireworks are pretty but my lite beer-drenched brain is vibrating in my head. My wet, sweaty, hair-matted head because it's probably raining. Or just that fucking humid, can we please just go now?
But besides all that. That stuff totally aside.
things currently amusing me
-watching boys fight on the interweb about whether a girl is "hittable" or not
-This spam subject line:
"All these chicks were evicted, so they stayed with me. All they had to do was blow me for it!"
I'm curious why were they evicted? Let me guess, they sucked too much dick. The naughty sluts. Or! Maybe they are all free-basing meth heads. Meth heads can't pay rent. Hollow cheeks, emaciation and teeth-grinding is just what men want in a porn-star knob slobber.
-Matthew Baldwin, in general
-R. Kelly's "Remix to Ignition" (Still. Still every time that song comes on I crack right up. ... "I'm about to take my key, and stick it in the ignition." Comedy GOLD.)
-David Sedaris' "Naked"
-my first ever sequence of recurring dreams that feature me telling rude customers to "go get ass-fucked," the thrill of which is so sweet it's almost orgasmic
-these three sentences from the always funny little. yellow. different.:
"This weekend, I went to see Wicked, a musical about the Wizard of Oz. I went with my boyfriend and some friends of college, the day before the Gay Pride parade in San Francisco.
Jesus Christ, I just read that last paragraph out loud to myself. It's like a day at the Gay Scouts, and I'm trying to earn six different badges at once."
-thoughts about past weekend's family reuinion that, if ever read by any of said family, would get me swiftly disowned. (I so want to tell you, though. Here, two words: RAT TAILS. Notice that was plural.)
The goddamn Super Wal-Mart.
well, doesn't tennessee suck much ass?
There was however, a very bright spot. The Nashville Scene's editor asked me to write a lenghthy, narrative non-fiction-type piece about The Southern Girls Rock N' Roll Camp. Rather than just preview the event, the editor thought an essay-ish article actually covering the camp would be better, and I'm incredibly flattered he thought of me. The camp isn't until the end of July--a day camp, so I don't have to miss work--at which time I'll observe, interview and get to know teenaged girls interested in rocking the fuck out. Then write 3,000 words about it. Here's hoping I at least come close to fulfilling my high expectations for this story. I think I just might do okay.
Other than that though, life can suck my balls. My proverbial ones, that is.
*Sadly, my move date has been pushed back to Feb. 1. I'm poor. But, my sweetie landlord allowed me a 6-month lease as opposed to a year, so that is a very damned good thing. No need to move, which costs a bundle. I stick it out through the holidays, ask for cash money for gifts and get the fuck up out before winter is up. That is the plan.
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