"gun katta" is the super shiznitch
Saturday, September 6, 2003
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
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 email@example.com. 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.
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
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
things are good
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!
* * *
* * *
"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...
* * *
Brittany (or whatever),
* * *
To a good friend who's arm is broke.
* * *
To a good friend, Amanda
* * *
GLAD I COULD BE THE FIRST ONE TO SIGN YOUR CRACK
* * *
Hey Brittney you are a nice girl but you are too ugly. Just kidding. OK. Bye by.
And, for no good reason: some pictures, yo
those people who had my parents
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
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.
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?
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
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.
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
*California is too far to punch.
From Babar with Love
(That was way fun.)
And I'm fucking beside myself.
(See photos of the print layout here.)
wow, i suck ass
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.
a list so long it will be written in paragraph form
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
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.
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
I broke it.
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.
an alphabetically labelled list
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
before i go
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 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
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