silky-good superfluousness

i miss meat

2nd trimester tales

sticky floors!

twin peaks episode titles

free online courses

stop emailing me this photo

the non-expert on resumes

laughed out loud

i'm loving this entry

erik blevin's "unseeable fear"

Hot or Not: Simon vs. Hitler

"gun katta" is the super shiznitch

a sort-of review

[this is me]

a death threat to the arby's oven glove

you know you want this shirt

creation science fair

discuss links

et alterum
twin peaks gazette
apt. 121 | aireline
rotten tomatoes
mr. cranky
mass transit
who would buy that?
apollo up
red rose coffee
ny times
dear donut
my fotolog

phase 2
Saturday, September 6, 2003
12:10 p.m.
It's back to lite beer and ice buckets and sticky sweet and sour mix after six glorious days off work. I came back to find my webspace disabled and my email uncheckable, which has really put a damper on my post-vacation blogging plans. I have 50 or so photos awaiting your eyeballs and no place to put them. There is a video of me dancing like a retard with a sugar high on Fremont St. that you will probably find funny, if not totally dorky in every way, yet it has no place to live. I have stories about all that happened in Sin City brewing as well, but I'm waiting for Monday.

Monday I'll be eating the pita, so to speak, and moving all my crap to typepad. On Monday, maybe Tuesday, you'll find a link to the new blog site and photos and movies and a proper update.

There will be a final post here to accompany the redirection to the new blog. It's cool outside my window and the leaves are doing that quivering thing where they get excited about falling soon, and the sun doesn't beam so very brightly, and things are so very fresh and pure.

I can't wait for Monday.


deserts are hot
Thursday, September 4, 2003
02:13 a.m.
I have returned from the land of neon and sluts and slot machines, and I came back with two-hundy more than I left with. Thanks to Mom. And a couple of lucky streaks.

I've got nothing but a restful night of sleep on my mind, sleep free of my sister's incessant mid-night babbling. My baby sister must be the star of every one of her dreams, in which she talks and talks and talks. And out loud.

My primary e-mail account, the f2o (lower-case 'o') one, is currently down, and is the reason for the missing graphics throughout the site. Temporary I suspect, but untimely, so if you've sent me email since before the first of the month, please send it again to I've made some room for you in there. Thank you kindly.

Expect a full report on Vegas as well as a shit-ton of pictures. Even a few little movies.

For now, chatterless slumber.


Saturday, August 30, 2003
11:17 p.m.
I'm working on a small assignment for the Scene for their 2003 Fall Guide. I'm to make a list of ten things I will or would like to be doing in the fall. The more personal, the better, they say, but it can be anything from music, to arts, to sporting events--anything at all, so long as it takes advantage of the season in some way.

I'm having a tough-ass time coming up with anything, since I do nothing but pour drinks, surf the web and make-out. I've got at least three really solid ones, but am getting desperate for things that aren't totally ultra-lame. I actually considered hiking. Fucking HIKING. No one is more boring than me.

Here are some other rejected ideas:

-start a weblog (This is retarded, since it has shit-all to do with autumn.)

-write a nasty, anonymous email to someone who fucked you over in the fall

-make a fall mix cd (Again, boring as beige. Also, advocating piracy.)

-try to keep your bank account positive (Not everyone is poor. Others do this thing known as "balancing" to their checkbook.)

-see Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club and Pretty in Pink

-floss daily (I really should do this year-round, anyway.)

-watch tons of television because somehow I have FREE CABLE! (Everybody already does this. Also, not fall-y.)

-learn how to spell "conscientious" without looking

-spend the thousands I win in Vegas on a hookers, blow and blueberry cheese curls

(See you on Thursday!)


public school rules
Saturday, August 30, 2003
10:59 a.m.

VCB (who went to a prestigious, all-boys private high school): I punched holes in the top corner of the pages of my copy of "A Farewell to Arms" and put a big ring through the holes and attached it to my back pack, so I wouldn't lose it. People flipped out. I'd be dragging the book behind me down the hallway and people would be all, "That's sacrilege! That's Hemingway!"

me (who went to a rural, Tennessee central high school): I can't believe you went to school with people who knew who Hemingway were. [sic]


nobody does it better
Friday, August 29, 2003
01:21 p.m.
Super close-up of Brit and Madonna kissing!


things are good
Thursday, August 28, 2003
01:54 p.m.
Just got my first substantial payment for a story, which happens to coincide with my birthday trip to Las Vegas on Sunday (Four days: me, mom and my sister. Mom's buying; a birthday treat for both my sister and I. And I hear in that part of the desert, drinks are free. Expect stories aplenty upon my return, and fear not, I bought an extra Flash card. Girl family: This trip will be documented.), and on top of all that I'm enormously in love and I just don't know how to handle all this fantabulousness.

I can see it now. The pendulum has peaked and will make its descent backward in lavish Las Vegas, where I flirt with gambling (I never really have before.) and fucking love it, and blow my rent money at a craps table and drown my sorrows in a shitload of scotch, which I hate, but will drink with reckless, Ben Sanderson-esque abandon. I will attempt to make it to my hotel room, but trip on a small child, breaking my leg, therein ruining the rest of the vacation for my Mom and sister, as they sit with a waling me in a Nevada emergency room. I so wouldn't doubt it.

Because everything right now is too, too perfect. A belt or a screw is loose somewhere. I'd pinch myself to see if I was dreaming if I wouldn't assuredly bruise black and blue. I feel--get this--happy every day I wake up. But more than that, maybe more importantly than that, I feel calm. At peace, in a sense. A feeling wholely unfamiliar in every way.

Which is why I am so about to get West Nile virus or botulism or rickets or something. Something really, really bad.


LYLAS! Mean it!
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
06:17 p.m.
Some of the best signatures from my collection of yearbooks:

I use to consider you a whinning over-sensitive little snob. I know now my opinion was the result of an accelerated testosterone level and a lack of sensitivity. Wow, betta never thought you'd hear me say that. You are a great girl. I genuinely enjoy talking to you and will miss your insight because it differs from my own. You help prove some girls are smart. If we are near over the next few years, look me up!
-Brian F.

* * *

Hey Homey whats going down! I have so much fun with you in lunch. It's been great. We've been friends since day care. Remember when we had a Booger Club in day care and we made a bunch of little kids eat their boogers, and the time we drew Mr. Leland in my carpet and burned napkins? I know you remember, I just wrote it down so when you are old and gross and you get bored one day and you get to reading youre yearbook you'll remember how ignorant we were.
Love ya,

* * *

"Ah...we were all beautiful once."

One day you'll think of this time and remember me, my keroppi box, and my sacred green journal. One day you'll smile in a rich sadness because everything changes and turns on the spinning circle. One day a star will fall and you will name it infinity, because one can only be what she holds in her heart...
Think of me then, Brittney, when your star falls and you become your dreams. I would always be real for you.
I love you,

* * *

Brittany (or whatever),
It's been fun knowing ya. Try not to brake your arm agian.
Michelle "89"

* * *

To a good friend who's arm is broke.
haha, your friend, LiLeahe

* * *

To a good friend, Amanda
P.S. Hope your arm gets better handicap.

* * *


* * *

Hey Brittney you are a nice girl but you are too ugly. Just kidding. OK. Bye by.
Your X boyfriend,

And, for no good reason: some pictures, yo


those people who had my parents
Friday, August 22, 2003
11:53 a.m.
People have grandparents. Grandparents they are close with. Who call them up and send them cards. People have grandparents who bake pies and admonish them for their wardrobe and worry endlessly over them. People have grandparents that they would rather not see.

I know such a phenomenon exists, but it is such a storybook concept to me, so very foreign. My mother's mother died of a blood disease when my mom was just four. And her father died drunk and homeless a few years before my birth.

My father's father took off when my dad was a kid, but his mother remarried and so he became the only grandfather I ever knew. Both my father's parents died within a few years of each other, when I was in my teens, but I wasn't overly saddened at their deaths. I do not miss them.

And when I hold the head of a friend who loses a grandparent these days, as is becoming more frequent of late, I wonder why I never cried at work. Why I never grieved like my peers grieve.

It wasn't that my grandparents were unkind to me. Quite the opposite is true. Though desperately poor, both Granny and Grandaddy both bought us candy and other small gifts, often coming out to day-long softball tournaments to root us on in the heat and dust. But we were never close. There were never any stories told. There were hugs, but only in parting, I think. And there was little tenderness at all in the little interactions.

I remember poker Fridays when all my aunts and uncles and cousins and my parents and my sister and I would meet up at the little white house on Shaw Rd. The grown-ups would sit around the kitchen table, all of them chain smoking cigarettes, playing cards until the wee hours of the morning. I remember hours stretched on the dirty floor, brushing aside bits of lint and food to lie where the smoke didn't burn my eyes. Smoke rises, I learned that early, and often found solice on the floor pouring over month-old National Enquirers and NFL football stats as that was the only thing there was in the house to read. I'd lie belly down, flipping the pages, my stinging eyes wetting the thin pages, wondering what it all meant. Deuces wild. Ante up. One-eyed jacks. My family spoke a foreign language feet away, scored by the clang of loose change on the table, the slapping of palms on the wood.

But, they had a garden out back, bursting with vegetables and an apple tree--I think several. I remember sticky summer days on the side porch with them both, eating salted, blood-red tomatoes and gushing watermelons. And fighting off flies. And sitting in silence, when for once the smell of fresh fruit overpowered that of cigarette smoke.

That time for me is what it is to have grandparents, and to me that is hardly worth crying over.


about a murder
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
01:17 p.m.
The other day I witnessed a murder on a tree; a horrific take-down that has burned itself into my brains. This wasp was riding the back of this huge bug almost twice its size, like a crazed, striped, stinging cowboy. It was repeatedly stinging it over and over, thrusting its venom into the writhing near-carcass ensnared in the wasp's grip.

The large, light-gray bug flopped and struggled, but the wasp only pushed harder, increasing its irruption, finally paralyzing the insect. Then the wasp flew straight up the tree many feet, dragging the dead weight of its prey in tiny legs.

My friends and I watched in horror from below, all of us transfixed on the death scene happening before us.

Jason: I would cry like a girl if that thing flew down here.

VCB: Are you kidding? If that thing flew down here I would crawl right up inside you.

So, I kept thinking about this slaughter, because it was truly, truly creepy. I mean, really: He couldn't eat that thing, could he? Do wasps eat huge, rhino-lookin' bugs?

Seems the answer is that they do.

Having seen the size of the wasp's kill that afternoon, after seeing the frenzy it took to take down the enormous beast, I just want to say one thing, and it's to that killer wasp: Holy fuck, dude. Fucking score.


long and winded
Monday, August 18, 2003
11:07 a.m.
Last night for about ten minutes there was a post up about the hilarity of a thing known as cathead biscuits. This is the breadth of my blogging of late. Lucky you, I came to my senses and took that crap down. Or perhaps, lucky me.

Friday night a certain Very Cute Boy (who currently has my name emblazened on his ass) and I went to see Cremaster 3 at the Belcourt. I got all psyched and rushed, rushed, rushed to Nashville to see it in time and got there just in time to hear some totally queeny guy go on and on about Barney and his genius. He explained that the cremaster is the muscle in men that makes their testicles contract and how this film is not a film but an allegory about the time before which a fetus develops its sex organs. All this and then some--even before the first frame rolled! I'd purposefully been wary of learning too much about the piece before seeing it, and this guy was teaching a freaking course on it! He then finished his lecture none too soon with this advice: "Just experience the piece. Don't think too much about what it means just yet."

What followed was an hour and a half of some very interesting, but excruciatingly paced empty-seeming imagery. I've got an appetite for the surreal, the fantastic and whimsy. I can sit through plotless, narration-less documentaries like this one and love it. I've got a pretty high tolerance for even the most glacial of pacing, I'd say, if it has some momentum, some sense of weight or gravity. But what I watched felt empty and terribly tedious. There were some interesting visuals, I am the first to admit. And the experiment in sound that was behind the piece--the element that had my date most transfixed--was ceratinly something to be experienced. Perhaps it was the aimlessness of it, maybe it was the inane repetition, maybe it was that I was counting how many lightbulbs were in the ceiling, but I was maddeningly bored.

Maybe the film got more visceral, more wrenching, more of what I expected after intermission, but I wouldn't know. After a very civil debate, the Very Cute Boy (henceforth known as the VCB) and I ditched the movie and left for beer and eats.

Speaking of eats, I haven't had any chicken, beef, pork or lamb in two weeks. I decided to cut out all meat besides seafood until the end of the month. My reason for doing so is personal and complicated, but I feel so much better for not eating it. I'd like very much to cut out those meats in my diet entirely, for life, but I think it best to work toward small goals. And so, until the end of the month no (real) meat for me.

Not eating meat has been both easy as shit and hard as hell. I'm a pretty picky eater in the first fucking place, so finding healthy alternatives to meat is the struggle. Cheese pizza, peanut butter, egg salad, grilled cheese, omlets, pancakes: all meat free, all delicious, all might as well be taped to my outer thighs. I've increased my carbohydrate intake tremendously, and I don't even want to know how many pounds I have put on in just 14 days. I so need to get back to the running that was never really running, more like jogging/walking for two miles then limping back to my car. Still. Need to do more of that. And learn to like beans, since I don't, and what kind of vegetarian doesn't like beans? I'll tell you: a fat, constipated one.

After Crapmaster 3 the VCB and I went to see Mercator at the Springwater. Then I saw them again Saturday night at the Red Rose because I can't get enough of that fantasy rock shit.

I worked all weekend as well, if you want to call it that. We were not at all busy at the bar where I was stationed, I think maybe since school started back today.

Today for me is cleaning house and work and laundry and outlines for books I want to write and green tea in a lime green cup and a hummus sandwich, hold the sprouts, and being wildly content for the first time in a long time.


everybody says i love babar
Thursday, August 14, 2003
11:53 a.m.
Kafkaesque, who desperately loves The Eagles*, held the "Let's imagine Babar, King of the Elephants in unseemly film and literature" contest. I was late with my submissions, so I'll post them here, like a total copycat, since he already did that, and that is where I saw the contest in the first place.

*California is too far to punch.

My Ones:

From Babar with Love
Dr. Strangelove, Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Babar
Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Babar
The Elephant Babar
Truly, Madly, Babar
The Lion in Babar
O Babar, Where Art Thou?
sex, lies, and babar
Bill and Babar's Excellent Adventure
Babar Shot Andy Warhol

(That was way fun.)

Also, would you look at all these mad props?!


a good day
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
03:30 p.m.
My story came out in the Nashville Scene today.

And I'm fucking beside myself.
This is a good day.

(See photos of the print layout here.)


wow, i suck ass
Monday, August 11, 2003
12:10 p.m.
Okay. So, things have gotten really boring around here lately. I know, I know.

This is where you come in. Go nuts. Graffiti up the comments section. Tell me what you really think in "discuss." Tell a joke. Tell a lie. Tell me how to get to Sesame Street.

Seriously, do whatever. Just do it up proper.

Yep, right here

a list so long it will be written in paragraph form
Saturday, August 9, 2003
10:11 a.m.

Things I found in my change cup while emptying it, since I am broke as shit and the gas light has been on for two days:

laundered and totally worthless $10 Outback gift certificate, rubber band, four ponytail holders, a AA battery, a blue crayon, plastic bottle opener, long metal for-work bottle opener, two pens, a pencil, four bobby pins, a hair clip, a scrap of tissue, a Dos Equis bottle cap, a torn Domino sugar packet (empty), random platic bits, two hairs, a piece of flair, a tag from a shirt I bought, and a quarter and a dime stuck together with a long blonde hair sticking out


Friday, August 8, 2003
12:34 p.m.
I took some neat shots at the Flaming Lips concert (here) and a few from the Girls Rock 'n' Roll Camp (here).

The story, by the way, is slated to run on Wednesday. I managed to get my draft in on time, and I'm pleased to say it's pretty good.

Least I think so. Everyone else can decide Wednesday when it hits newsstands.


the lead
Wednesday, August 6, 2003
02:39 p.m.
The first paragraph of the rough draft of my story.*

Bright green-streaked hair tied into a low ponytail at her nape, a bored-looking teenaged girl adjusts the dozens of plastic studded bracelets on her right arm. She is filling in the white rubber of her black Chuck Taylors with red-inked swirls and checkerboard patterns, the soles dotted with tiny words. Drumsticks lie in wait in her lap. Her hardened expression seems to soften as the auditorium where she waits begins to brim with more girls her age, who listen to the same bands, it says so right there on their t-shirts. Most of the new arrivals look wary and aloof as they scour for empty seats. A number of them strapped to guitars or lugging large amps, it is easy to sense the excitement beneath a practiced, unaffected veneer.

*I may have been tripping, but I'm thinking the editor yesterday may have said the words "cover story." Like, all side-by-side and shit.

(I've written a bunch more but I'm only halfway there. First draft deadline at 5 p.m. I'm so fucked.)


final entry over there
Tuesday, August 5, 2003
02:37 p.m.
I made one last stab at the guest blogging thing over at Miss Thang's place, but as soon as I posted her site went down.

I broke it.


changes soon
Tuesday, August 5, 2003
12:43 p.m.
I've decided I'll be using TypePad.


ya know...
Monday, August 4, 2003
02:13 p.m.
In reviewing my tapes of interviews from last week, I'm continually shocked at how frank and uncensored people are, even with a microphone in their face.

It's almost as though they forget they are being interviewed. They must. Or they are too nervous to think before they speak or something.

Interesting study of how revealing people can be to strangers, even strangers from The Media.

Guess what?
There is more stuff elsewhere.


guest blogger
Saturday, August 2, 2003
01:57 p.m.
Short, virtually worthless first post at twinkle twinkle blah blah blah.

There is another one. This one is longer, yet equally worthless. I have to have some standard of consistency.


an alphabetically labelled list
Thursday, July 31, 2003
10:15 a.m.
a) If getting up early every day for work means becoming a responsible, functional adult that responsible, functional adult can lick my ASS.

b) Yesterday, I watched in astoundment as a 15-year-old girl screamed to some hardcore song something about "wet vaginas" and "suck a dick."

c) Somebody moved into the tree outside my apartment. Two somethings, rather. Two big robins have nested in the tree just outside my window. I think they built the nest out of chirping. (Are there baby birds coming?!)

d) I started a book. (Screenplay currently on hold.)

e) I made this list because I am saving the good stuff for tomorrow. (Do not let me lie to you, there is no good stuff.) Tomorrow I'll be host blogging for the effervescent, consistently hilarious, totally-lusted-after-by-my-East-Nashville-friends Miss Cowboy Sally. I'll be sucking it up there until Tuesday. I'll likely redirect you to the pale in comparison copy located at her place. So, yeah, that is where I'll be. While she is away, I totally plan on raiding her closet and trying on some of those uber-hipster outfits she is always sporting and flipping through albums to fawn over pictures of young, urban professionals and dream of a life that doesn't so closely resemble this STILL non-ironic mullet-infested place. And maybe I'll use her coochie shaving thing she mentioned that I always wanted to try out. Then I'll blog it. Top THAT, Mrs. Kennedy!


the pay off
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
09:18 a.m.
Closing the bar, then crawling out of bed five hours later to spend all day with arm sock-wearing teenaged girls, only to repeat the routine the next day is totally worth it. If only for witnessing that smile on the face of a pink-shirted girl who held, for the first time, an electric guitar.


before i go

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.
I think.


dear you

Dear Readers,

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 and tit shots to be featured shortly.





suggest reading
recommend a movie
the best of misc., etc.

will work for ______

resume (hire me!)

instant message me
aim: thisgarmonbozia

somewhat daily reading

metafilter | myfi
dong resin's joint
laura palmer's secret diary
i am a banana!
sweat flavored gummi
deep blue day
anil dash
chapel perilous
toohey world
sarah space
mighty girl
elf radio
rabbit blog
sir awesome
martian soil
izzle pfaff!
i stood up and i said yeah!
little. yellow. different.
cockeyed absurdist
mimi smartypants
bottom dwelling
here i type
que sera sera
exploding dog
defective yeti
sarah hepola
monkey disaster
april winchell
ani moller
total viscosity breakdown
the subastral lilipad
cowboy sally
evil twin theory.
the morning news
small spiral notebook
ben henick
abbie the cat
complete square

get around much: