The Hipster Pit

No, But I Often Dream of Running Away

2009-04-14T15:59:00.002-05:00

On the bus down Mission street, post-yoga.

Strapped to me and slung about me are:
- laptop bag
- (standard-issue SF sporty gal) LuluLemon bag filled with discarded day clothes
- Yoga bag (Yoga mat - Samurai Sword of the hopelessly docile)
- Purse

Older woman in a bright red, polka-dotted raincoat sits next to me and eyes me suspiciously. For an uncomfortable period of time. Until I say, "Hello."

Her: Are you off to college?
Me: Um, no.
Her: Living on the streets?
Me: Um, I just have a lot of stuff.

Guess this is all to say that, yeah, I'm coming back now to bore you with my anecdotes. Let the ignoring commence.

2009-03-26T18:29:00.001-05:00

Thank you, india.

2009-03-26T17:59:00.001-05:00

Ping!

Welcome, lil' bit.

2008-08-12T19:43:00.001-05:00

Congrats, Curry.

Evidence of the Power of the Human Mind

2008-08-11T10:53:00.002-05:00

Billions of years of evolution so I could lie in bed this morning and think:

I wonder if George Clooney is worried about aging? Do you think he's a happy person, overall, or has his fame brought a weight of expectation and anxiety that he can never live up to?

Hm, he's a man, though. A white man. Life can't be that hard for him.

Extended Coterie Exhausts Banks With Their Loudmouth Antics -- Film at 11

2008-08-07T18:20:00.003-05:00

Banks was dying for a lull. What can I say? We're not the lulling type.

The web of banter was so thick that I began calling out the relatively infrequent lulls wherever I was happy to find them. “Lull!” I would say. “That’s definitely a lull.”

Hey guys, I'm back from the dark side. Missed ya!

2008-08-04T10:21:00.003-05:00

So, not dead! Which is great.

Did have a crushing low there, post vacation.

As it turns out, I am someone who definitely benefits from the meds that have stabilized me for the last five years. There are mixed blessings, to be sure, as the Effexor (or, as I now know it is charmingly nicknamed, Side Effexor, hardy har) had some horrendous side effects. It is good to be free of it and of them.

But the subsequent gaping abyss that opened in my mind in its absence was not a welcome visitor.

There's lots of talk about various forms of depression and their presence and subsequent impact on our culture. There's lots of skepticism aimed at the pharmaceutical industry and the way it markets and profits from this endemic disease. There's the pedantic lecturing that goes on to friends and family of the afflicted -- a shaking of the finger and a reminder that they are not going to be able to "just snap out of it" on their own.

All of this confuses the issue and takes into the public realm of debate something which is, in its most basic form, a deeply personal experience. Andrew Solomon, in his book on the subject, says that depression "can be described only in metaphor and allegory." And I could talk to you about being trapped in a lightless pit, about the iron vice on my head, about the small hands clutching and pulling me into the murk. I could even recount the moments standing by the tub with the hairdryer in my hand and having fleeting thoughts about just how simple it all could be. . . but it would be not only pointless, but, at this point, cliche.

So I will say a few things, express some gratitude, bullet style:

- having gone through this personal hell in the past, I was able to recognize it for what it was this time.
- I have great friends and family upon whom I was able to lean.
- there are some great drugs out there, hallelujah.

In conclusion, I am feeling much better. And, soon, I will be able to write more of the frivolous bullshit for which you come.

Like how I'm in Chicago right now. And how I went to see Radiohead and some kids handed me a joint and there were massive fireworks above Soldier Field and the night was warm and we were surrounded by the skyline and it was a gorgeous moment.

And I remembered that life, my friends, is very, very good.

Aw Shit, Luc, Yer Right

2008-06-22T21:41:00.004-05:00

I forgot to blog about the important videos Swissair has running right now:

Waiting Room - Watch a funny movie here

GAGS! JUST FOR LAUGHS!

They play these videos with no sound throughout the flight -- mostly people ignore them and harass the nice stewardesses for more liquor. This one actually had the whole plane cracking up.

Anyway, yes, I have much more to write, I just got all caught up in life there for a minute.

Goal for the week: More Russia!

Oh boy.

2008-06-13T09:48:00.001-05:00

DSC_1957.JPG
Originally uploaded by Annevan

ALVS posted her pix.

Observations: Installment 2

2008-06-12T14:31:00.003-05:00

Russian Red
When Jennifer picked us up at the airport, we told her about my Communist Red highlights.

She said, "You'll fit in great, here! Lots of women have that color hair!" Turns out, I have Russian Red highlights -- only these women in russia? They have redded the whole head:

For your reference -- communist red.

Examples of the form:

Preferred Mode of Transportation

We took a bus into the city center -- through row after row of sprawling, square high-rises in various states of disrepair. The broken windows, patched-up balconies, and soot-stained cinder block construction reminded me of the projects on the southside of Chicago -- where people are crowded in abject poverty.

Jennifer told us that this is actually where much of the population lives -- not just the poor, but everyone -- in these soviet-era housing blocs, cramped into small apartments.

Apparently, also -- the government is in the midst of planning to tear them down and rebuild. Not just in St. Petersburg, but across the country. This is a project of mind-boggling proportions. I didn't take pictures of them, because, somehow, I was bashful of doing this, obviously documenting the scarred landscape.

We pass police standing by the side of the road in blue fatigues toting machine guns, for no apparent reason.

As we enter the city center, the architecture turns to massive, imposing rows of imperial-looking stone facades. We disembark at a square with a statue of Lenin -- Jen insists we have our picture taken by a surly passerby, as this is one of the few statues left of Lenin in St. Petersburg.

At this point, Jen announces that we'll get a cab.

Here she is hailing said "cab."

You'll note that she's not doing that thing that most of us do, which is to scan the horizon for a yellow car with a lit sign atop.

That's because, in St. Petersburg, when you get a cab, you get a gypsy cab. That is, some dude driving his car around and ferrying people about for money without any sort of official sanction. Or meter, or really indication on the outside of his car that yes, he's a Taxi and yo, he's free!

Eventually, someone pulls over and Jennifer negotiates a rate for us and our luggage.

In our time there, we take several gypsy cabs, sober, drunk, day, night -- it's a blind practice but never futile -- someone always picks us up.

Every once and awhile you see an official-looking car with a proper light atop speeding through the streets in typical manic Russian fashion, but apparently these vehicles are wildly overpriced and relegated to tourists and business travelers.

Next Up: Toasts! Signage! White nights! Rock and Roll!

Piter: Some observations. Installment one.

2008-06-10T14:37:00.006-05:00

St. Pete Inhales.

The first thing we notice upon entering St. Petersburg -- disembarking the plane, walking into the slate-gray soviet-era Pulova International Airport -- is the smell of cigarette smoke.

The Russians are serious about their smoking. They would not let a little thing like a customs line stand in their way. In fact, in our week in Russia, there are only three places where smoking is banned -- in St. Issac's Cathedral, inside the Church on the Spilled Blood, and in the Metro.

The cigarette smoke in Russia is a serious affair. It's not just that it's everywhere. It's the quality of the smoke -- darker, somehow. More insistent, pungent, wafting in heavy curls, hanging in the air in dense walls of fumes. You can feel the smoke penetrating your pores, digging in, clinging to he fibers of your clothing, winding into your hair, seeping into your lungs.

I don't want to say that Russian cigarettes are noxious -- I'm afraid it might be insulting to the culture of which they are an inseparable part. But I've smoked these formidable sticks in my time and it's not completely unlike what I imagine it would be to smoke fiberglass. Or Asbestos, maybe.

When one isn't smelling cigarettes, you can savor the smell of diesel.

Stiletto. Pumps. In. The Club.

Jennifer says, "It's pretty much a requirement that the women here take care of themselves."

Tall, thin, they stride through the city on towering heels. Mothers on the playground, women in suits and skirts, everywhere -- Stiletto Pumps.

They are all dressed purposefully, their hair blonde by nurture, their legs clad in nylon and faces perfectly made up -- if unsmiling.

Unsmiling as a Rule

There's something missing, I think, when I'm first trolling the streets, bars cafes -- it's laughter.

There's not superfluous laughter here -- in this way Jen and I stand out like sore thumbs -- laughing boisterously and cacophonously at absurdities everywhere -- gigantic dogs sitting on benches like people, outrageously mistranslated menus (Tree Scooops of ice cream).

Families pose for pictures in front of landmarks with their faces grim and serious.

At the same time, there is a huge sense of living in the moment -- you've got some money, go out and have a fabulous party! Live for today! That is both in contrast and perfectly fitting with a typically cynical worldview.

Next up: Signage. Drinkage. Transportation.

And other fun things!

This Next Song Is Called "I Want To Fuck All The Girls In The World (in the name of rock and roll)"

2008-06-03T16:24:00.002-05:00

So, I have lots and lots to write about St. Petersburg - and many photos to post. Unfortunately, one of the important photos I neglected to take was of a fantastic sign on Nevesky Prospekt for a shoe store called "Handbags for Feet."

This is quite possibly the best store name ever. Throughout our visit "Handbags for XXX" was a favorite refrain -- those pants are handbags for legs! This food is handbags for my mouth!

Wait, that is a tangent.

I am not here really to tell you about all my adventures.

I am here to tell you about a band we saw called Sweat. As in "WE ARE SWEAT! AND WE ARE HERE TO MAKE YOU SWEAT! CAN YOU FEEL THE SWEATING?" (Shout that in a Russian accent -- and you have the beginnings of a fabulous time, I promise you.)

This band played with one of our faves, JD and the Blenders, starring our friend JD.

There will be plenty of time, too, for me to write about that important experience.

But Anne and I are in France, now, stuffing ourselves with cheese and bread, fresh air, stunning mountains, and rest. And we've yet to wash the Sweat off our bodies -- this band rocked out in a stunning way that was the perfect mix of pitch-perfect American rock and roll and a touch of inrony. And we miss them.

Dear Sweat -- come play San Francisco!

Brief Recap, in Quote Form

2008-05-29T09:28:00.003-05:00

Anne, at the Hermitage: That's the thing about splendor. It just requires so much UPKEEP.

Me: Who are all the screaming drunks in green hats?
Tamara: The police.

Anne: I want to take your picture!
Hana: Oh, excellent, because this is the first time I've matched my eye makeup to my handbag, and I want it captured.

Later, Anne stages a photoshoot with Hana and I in the men's bathroom in a bar called Fidel. Fidel is next door to the bar called Datcha, which is celebrating its fourth anniversary. We stand outside drinking beers we don't ever remember ordering or paying for -- they just appeared.

We talk to Welsh, Finnish, British, American, Russian people who are all living interesting lives -- journalists, musicians, translators -- Jennifer seems to know everyone.

Fans -- there are fans who come and speak to her in the street -- and they all know she is leaving soon. They press email addresses on slips of paper into her palms.

Drunk, in the gypsy cab (preferred method of transportation in St. Petersburgh), Jennifer laments: How will people in Syracuse know how important I am?

We think they'll know. Darlings, the woman has a famousness about her.

Quotes from the last few days

2008-05-27T08:20:00.003-05:00

Me: So, what day is it?
Anne: Sunday.
Me: So tomorrow's Saturday, right?
Anne: Um. . . no.

***

Joanna: You americans do cookies and brownies well, but biscuits terribly.
Me: What defines a biscuit, exactly?
Joanna: Well, it's made of biscuit!

***

Misha: Our cat is the father of 8!

***

Anne, in the Vienna airport, after examining the perplexing rock vending machine (one euro per rock!): I bet you wish you were blogging right now.

I blame her for talking me out of bringing my laptop.

But we are in Russia! I can see onion domes out the window. I have already had my chilled vodka shot with a pickle chaser -- and there's another one being poured now. We are listening to a Russian girl folk rock band.

Jennifer will be playing her last Ska Jazz Review show on Friday -- she is moving to Syracuse for grad school -- and it should be a blowout. And we will be there.

Life is amazing and rich. Dosvedanya, Bitches.

This moment may be the best one

2008-05-23T22:49:00.002-05:00

I'm going on vacation -- I'm leaving tomorrow -- London, St. Petersburg, Geneva, Amsterdam -- and right this second I'm beyond happy because I am no longer on call -- I don't have to think about work for 2 and a half weeks. Oh, bliss.

It's What's For Lunch!

2008-05-22T11:19:00.001-05:00

Communist Red

2008-05-21T18:26:00.003-05:00

So, I have this kind of adorable, bleach-blonde, kewpie doll quirkfest of a hairdresser named Ally. Perpetually sweet, tattooed, clad in DIY punk ("this t-shirt is an homage to Andy Warhol. I drew the scars myself. I have one at home where I made eyelets out of cigarette burns."), she is charming and probably dangerous for me.

Today she was not herself -- turns out she broke up with her boyfriend, of whom she has tattoos -- serious stuff.

So, I guess I was feeling like I wanted to please her -- cheer her a bit -- and, well, cheer me, and I guess, be punk rock for my post-soviet adventure -- but when she said, "You're going to Russia? We've got to give you Communist Red Highlights!" I agreed.

Hoooo boy, I'm punk rock.

While trip planning

2008-05-17T23:36:00.001-05:00

Me: i'm excited
I haven't been to london since 95

Anne: aw
yeah, I hardly know it at all

me: i hardly remembs
that's um
13 (choke) years ago?
really?
am I making that up???
WTF
god
to be twenty

Anne: your math is horrible. it's only been a few years
like 4 maybe

me: like two

Anne: I was talking today about 18 year olds... being born in 1990. omg. And I'm OK with the fact that they are 18 and I'm not, but being born in 1990???? NOT OK

me: TOTALLY NOT OK

Anne: at all
I was pubescent it 1990
and you were born???
I could be your mother
and you're 18!!!

me: I babysat you
you were a baby
and now you're in college

Anne: fuck

me: drunk

There used to be a magazine about Twin Peaks called "Wrapped in Plastic."

2008-05-16T20:12:00.000-05:00

Breakfast of Champions

2008-05-16T13:08:00.001-05:00

That Story

2008-05-09T21:59:00.004-05:00

Okay, so this is a contender for that story. I don't think anyone has actually told that story yet, but somehow I feel like the whole thing has escalated to point where no tall tale will ever, in our minds, fit the bill. So just a suggestion, not a proud, flourishing entry.

Exhibit A: Johnny (AKA, Jonathan, Johnny T., JT Santos)

Johnny T is one of those friends who is not just your friend, but a fixture in your life. JT and I go back, oh, nigh upon eleven years or so. A good third of our lives have been spent as cohorts. A good number of bartenders in the city of Chicago still give me free drinks when I walk in because I'm Johnny's sister. (Or at least that is what we spent many years claiming.)

Johnny is a Character. He and I mesh at a cosmic level -- in the places where we are broken, the places where we are both utterly normal and absolutely outcast.

JT will perhaps not be pleased to see the following in print, but he won't deny it: boy is a ladies' man, gains pleasure from stoking the fires of sexual desire, has always been one to compulsively ensure that everyone in the room wants to sleep with him. This is also where we mesh well: I have no desire to sleep with him. Our friendship has benefited from this, much like how my relationship with my dad benefitted from financial independence -- we have to find other common ground and build our relationship from there.

There's plenty of ground. Fandom of various bands, sick sense of humor, and, in our early late twenties, we had similar self-destructive interests.

Right. But which story is this?

We've got plenty of "that time we" stories -- we enjoy telling them to each other over beers, boring our friends and family while we indulge one another. This one I like because it involves The Media.

Or rather, Paper! The printed kind. Old school. (My "story" stories seem to have this in common.) The Chicago Reader. Johnny was a roamer, a train-taker, a walker; one of those guys on the train at noon in tight jeans, a tattered blazer with a popped collar, a satchel with a notebook and a book of Raymond Carver stories, and giant headphones clamped to his head. He regularly consumed the Reader in coffee shops.

The first part he always read, before the 5,000 word articles on local politics or the indepth guide to local shows, before Savage Love or the ironic indy cartoons -- he always read Missed Connections first.

Because he was pretty sure that, inevitably, one of these days, all this roaming and looking deep in the presence of all these hipster slips of girls with their thrift store dresses and funky haircuts would pay off. He just knew, at some point, he would find himself in there.

He would mentally catalog, in fact, the moments: That girl in the green cardigan and the headband on the Blue Line may have caught his eye as she looked up from her copy of Atlas Shrugged. Was that girl in the ironic tshirt and painted on jeans at the bar tipping her glass to him?

Enter Antagonism

So, right, closest friends do share these things -- confide in the quiet drunk hours of a late late night. As he did me, explain this compulsion and faith that He Would Be Noticed.

I suppose, in retrospect, we were Jock Friends at this time, because my plan was pretty much hatched immediately.

Jocks
It was 2002, I think, and the Indiana University Hoosier basketball team was In The Playoffs -- which is, pretty much, the only time we would have cared -- but we wanted to take in a game among shouting fans in a beer-soaked sports bar. Cheering! Fandom!

We picked a bar that would be jock-ish, but not so crowded that we would have to stake out a table early in the day in order to sit. We just weren't that dedicated.

Jonathan immediately began to flirt with the waitress, a curly-headed blonde with a no-bullshit attitude who pretty much blew him off completely, aside from the obligatory delivery of the tall boy and mini pizza.

Indiana lost. We went home drunk.

Which is kinda neither here nor there, just a setup for what happened next.

Because it was almost

April Fool's Day

So, March madness leads to the day I realized you can place a Missed Connections ad for free. On the Internets. (Before it was even called the Internets -- oh, the olden days.)

And so I filled out the form:

You were at Sluggers for the Indiana game. I served you an Old Style and a pizza with sausage and onions. Was that girl your girlfriend? Maybe you'd like to share a pizza with me sometime.

And promptly forgot all about it.

Two weeks later, the ad runs in the paper.

Have I mentioned I forgot all about it?

Until I get a phone call.

"Rebecca! I'm in the missed connections!"

I thought about telling him. At that very moment -- I even felt bad, until he said, "I always knew this would happen."

Eh, maybe we'll see where this goes.

There was a party that week. I don't remember what we were celebrating, but I had a lot of parties in that apartment. I suppose that's a reminiscence for another day.

I was in the kitchen, probably administering an alcoholic beverage, when Sarah ran in to tell me -- "Johnny was in the missed connections! Did you hear this?"

Maybe, too, I was a bad friend when I said, "Actually. . . "

By the end of the evening, Johnny was the only one who missed that particular connection.

This went on.

For a couple of weeks. The ad ran in the paper again, and Jonathan ruminated on it. He savored his moment and imagined every possible outcome. He talked idly about it often.

I started to get concerned -- why had I been so specific? I mean, a random girl on the train can stay a random girl on the train. A waitress will still be serving beers in the same place this week and next week. That's her job. She can't escape into the anonymity of the crowd.

There was a massive heat wave that April. Suddenly, inexplicably, we had 90 degree weather. I had no air conditioning, unfortunately.

One sticky, hungover Saturday afternoon, we pulled out the futon and were lying side-by-side, not touching, rather lying there maximizing sweaty surface area and trying to cool off.

I was nodding off when Johnny said, "The thing is, she said, 'let's share a pizza sometime.' I'm just not sure I'd like to date a girl who would say 'let's share a pizza sometime.'"

Well, this was that moment.

I said, "Well, have you thought that maybe. . . it wasn't well. . . what if it wasn't real?"

"what?"

There was a moment where he stared at the ceiling and then he turned to me.

I gave that half-apologetic smile.

"Sorry."

Johnny is my brother for a reason.

The reason is this:

He laughed. He cackled and hollered and he said, "I can't believe it. You got me. You pulled the perfect hoax. I can't believe you told me. I would have definitely worked this for longer."

I just couldn't let him go back and confront the poor curly haired blonde.

Hey Everybody! (In which I write about non-battlestar-galatcia-related topics)

2008-05-06T23:25:00.003-05:00

So, right.

That thing I do for money has been wresting control of that thing I call my life lately, so less write-y and more anxiet-y.

But ladies and gents, there is a light at the end of le tunnel! It's called "I'm going to leave the country on May 24."

Of course, then, I couldn't find my passport -- but, the US managed to turn one around for me in a mere week. Now, on to getting that vital other document -- my Russian Visa.

I'm finally

Finally

Going to Russia (assuming they issue my Visa, dear Gods of the consulate, please say yes).

In the meantime, shaking off the existential angst of those eternal questions of life: How will I live after I've loved and lost? What if no one comes to my party? What if I can't get my hair cut before I leave the country?

When will I ever write that dang story?

Speaking of that dang story -- I will address a little of the storied past of my career.

So, I stumbled into PR from a short-lived and low-paid gig in public radio (glamour, a bit, money, fame, big city life, not so much).

I answered an advertisement (in the paper, of all things. Remember that? Made of paper?) and it said something about stuffing envelopes (which really doesn't happen that much anymore, now that the digital has edged paper out of the picture).

I went in, and I interviewed first with my perky, blond, young colleague-to-be, who, while literally looking around herself from her perch in the conference room (lest someone overhear) leaned over to deliver a conspiratorial whisper about Judi, the boss: "She's kind of a yeller."

Not like old yeller, peeps -- like full on bellows, high pitched screams, ranging from strident insistence to hysterical anger. Mostly about irrational details.

Certainly don't need to go into said irrational details - but let me provide you two illustrative ones:

One:

She hired me based upon the results of a writing test. Not the kind wherein you write something and your writing is judged.

no.

A handwriting test.

Granted, I do have a lovely hand -- but the computer she paid to analyze my handwriting said I would be hard working, meek, and easily manipulated. No joke. She actually pointed that out to me at one point during my six-month tenure, saying that she was disappointed that I did not turn out as this handwriting test had indicated I would.

I would like to suggest that perhaps the fine art of graphology, based upon this experience, is the highest grade of straight-up, pure bullshit. Cuz, me = easily manipulated? Perhaps. Meek? Never.

Two:

When I finally resigned after six tortured months, after six (6) colleagues were hired and quit (several after a single day, two after a single week), she announced to me that she wanted to kill herself. I have to say, as a twenty-nothing with zero experience, I was good, but not THAT good.

At this moment, you may be screaming to me: POINT! DOES THIS STORY HAVE A POINT!

I guess the moral of the story is -- It. could. be. worse.

I'm feeling it~

2008-04-29T23:41:00.004-05:00

Anne and I rip into the new live cd/dvd from The Gossip with the same relish we have enjoyed new releases from our favorite artists for the last twelve years. I pop the DVD in and blast it through the speakers in the living room.

Anne: Holy shit look at that outfit. Beth Ditto is insane.
Me: I'm still mad at you for missing that show last year. At Bottom of The Hill. A bar. WTF is this crowd?? WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?
Anne: I feel like performing this much would be such a workout. I wonder how she doesn't lose weight?

Later, I text Anne: THIS IS FOR THE FAGGOTS!
She texts back: FOR THE G-A-Y-S!

Quickly - more fan nonsense

2008-04-27T12:16:00.003-05:00

Am about to go on a daytrip with Sus to Russian River Valley -- where we will sun and sip our white worries away.

In the meantime, I just watched this week's BSG. Everyone who holds out on this show, you're just plain wrong. It's amazing.

And, if you want to know how it feels to go off your meds while also facing a perfect shitstorm in your life, just witness Chief -- y'all, he has a moment where I'm like, hm. That's me right now.

(THOMAS, DON"T READ THE NEXT GRAPH)

Of course, I'm not dealing with the suicide/murder of my wife/living with a massively consuming crazy identity crisis/ps: it's the end of the fracking world. So, right, RJ -- GET SOME PERSPECTIVE!

(RESUME)

Anyhow, if you're a true fan of a show, I highly recommend getting on board with Television Without Pity recaps. Back in the day, I would watch Six Feet Under with an extra layer of glee, just imagining what the recap would say.

BSG recaps are a tetch more melodramatic, on a whole, and I think it's possible that is because devotees take ourselves and our show a little more (too?) seriously.

All rambling aside, though, this hilarious tidbit from this week does a nice job of capturing what's awesome about the show:

Things end with a particularly brutal -- yet sweetly intentioned -- fistfight, in the middle of which Caprica realizes actually what she needs to do is make out with him. And this is the least weird thing that happens in the whole episode. It's awesome.

It is sick

2008-04-25T21:48:00.002-05:00

how much pleasure I get from evangelizing BSG.

Seriously, people. Battlestar? A little tiny bit of religion.

And when BWB writes this:

SOP Phase II, wherein Daddy Bay pours hisself a cool Imperial Weizen, unfurls that 1 lb bag of honey roasted almonds, and settles down for a few hours of sippage and nippage with BSG:S2.5 (aside to hipster, thx fer BSG:S1, it will be back in the mail to you next week).

I know I have brought another soul into my fold.

So say we all.

emergency relief

2008-04-25T08:53:00.003-05:00

I forgot.

When everything else fails, grab Annevan and get thee to a show.

So, I didn't find anything up on youtube yet for last night, but I had to find some example of just how friggin' adorable and French and batshit Yelle is -- and how we were 22 again for the night, crowded in with sweaty, ecstatic bodies, jumping and throwing our arms in the air (and we did not care, I assure you).

But here she is in New York!

For me, this is the ultimate form of therapy. This is part of the reason being alive rocks.

Anne has been using Yelle to teach me some French -- in this song, she is singing about wanting to see you in a porno in action with your dick. These are critical language skills!

At various points during the show Anne would lean over and say things like: Now she's singing about a passive agressive relationship! or Now she's singing about her dildo! She calls it her remote control!

I am now languishing in my muscle soreness and tiny hangover, they'll be gentle reminders all day that life exists outside of the relentless demands and deadlines of the day. (Accidental alliteration! Dang I did it again.)

The Dog Ate My Blog

2008-04-23T09:04:00.003-05:00

Like Baywatch, I need an extension.

I haven't forgotten you, Arlopop, but life has definitely gotten in the way.

I'm workin' on it. Also having a little stage fright -- like, really? Wait? Do I have a story good enough for this glove on my face?

One Legged

2008-04-22T00:10:00.002-05:00

I swear there is another version of this picture of Melrose wherein I look way cuter.

But Rita only sent this one.

Possibly because she looks like a stunning perfect fashion model, here.

Actually, she always looks like that. There's clearly no explanation for this nonsense.

TSA PIA

2008-04-20T16:11:00.001-05:00

TSA PIA
Originally uploaded by Rebecca June

I get so exhausted with hatred at the TSA in Evansville, Indiana. This woman, I've gotten into fracases with in the past. She spent a full 20 minutes rubbing my bag down looking for explosives.

They stopped me again at the gate, at which time I was disarmed a little by the young female agent who inquired breathlessly about what it was like to live in California. "I heard people is different out there," she says. Then she tells me about a friend who moved to Las Vegas, where people don't stop to help you if you're in a car accident.

Why does hating it so intensely make me feel guilty?

Refreshing!

2008-04-19T15:28:00.002-05:00

Nail Studio introduces the new services the "Deluxe Pedicure". The Deluxe Pedicure it more soothing and relaxing. The "Creative Spa" products to make you fell more papered and leaving your skin felling fresh like a new born baby.

Bizarro trip to nail nail land photo set here:

Thank You For Coming To My Wedding -- Leave Gifts By The Door

2008-04-19T12:29:00.003-05:00

The best plan of attack in these flyby visits to Chicago is to hold court at a bar and invite everyone.

Goddamn if they didn't come!

Buckets, Baywatch, E money, Jackie and Jill, Johnny T and the Future Wife, Sarah and The Soc, Melrose Place (original lineup), The MacGregors. . .

Wait.

This is starting to sound like the lineup of the second stage at some sweaty college music festival.

And although the evening was loud and beer-filled, there wasn't a ton of sweating and no frat boys.

At one point Luc had a strange message on his hand, though:

It was an evening that clicked past at an astonishing rate, and I felt a little guilty for not being able to give everyone equal attention. Luckily, they entertained each other, and I'll take what I can get.

This is what happens when you're with me

2008-04-16T00:10:00.003-05:00

Susan and I went to a gallery in Union Square to pick up a gift for my mother's birthday. We walked in and the gallery owner announced, "I've got to run move my car. You guys watch the shop."

Susan responds, "Um, okay. I'll take my jacket off so I'll look more in place."

I say, "I'll be the customer!" (Because, I guess, I am?)

She immediately begins hunting for some sort of "polishing cloth to dust some of these displays."

Belgian tourists come in and she gives them brochures and pretends to be knowledgeable.

We are left with the entire inventory of fine art glass, lacquered russian thingamajigs, and other assorted Artworks. It never really even occurs to me, until after we leave, that I could have stuffed my pockets and ran, were I the type of person inclined to such acts. Is that virtue or pollyanna suckerdom?

I asked Susan to sell me something, so I could take a picture. Here she is explaining to me the nuanced beauty of this possibly inhabited planet, which, she claimed, sports lots of "gorgeous flying saucers":

She said, "This stuff only happens when I'm with you."

Why, thank you!

A Play in One Photo

2008-04-15T21:32:00.002-05:00

Setting:

Walgreen's. Middle of a work-day with two exasperated, stressed-out coworkers on a tums-and-prescription-sleep-medication run. Snarky sniping has been the order of the day, perhaps a way to diffuse the annoyance at ALL THE WORK! For sort of murky reasons, the two refer to each other exclusively by the nickname "Hoodia."

Hoodia 1: Hoodia! It's the AS SEEN ON TV AISLE!

Hoodia 2: OMG HOODIA! I'm taking your picture!

-scene-

Congratulations, Cheeseballs!

2008-04-14T20:30:00.003-05:00

Just got this bulletin about

Dana

and

Mike

hey all,

spreading the happy happy word, Dana and Mike are engaged! He proposed by giving her a ring inside a box made of cheese. They are the weirdest and best couple ever. No word yet on a wedding date yet, but potential location of Monterey, CA.

Hazah!

love,

proud big sis em *

Awesome.

Congrats, you fuckers!!!

(Lest you misinterpret this photo -- she's not kissing his wrist sweetly. She's biting him. Cuz that's what they do. They also have a sweet pet name for each other: "bitey." How glorious!)

UPDATE: From the blushing bride:

Okay so it's official, Mike and I are gettin' hitched, so prepare yourselves for festivities including, but not limited to, sharks, alcohol, biting, cheese, and I dunno, some more sharks.

I am. so. excited.

Alotta Lucky

2008-04-14T12:03:00.003-05:00

This is my friend Chave. She is in a musical revue called Beach Blanket Babylon. When asked, "Who do you play?" Her response is, "The black girl."

If you've ever seen this show, which is a comical, hat-and-wig-filled commentary on current events, you'd know this already. Chave's role is Oprah/Condi/insert-black-female-name-here.

When she leaves at night tourists hug her and ask for her autograph. I've seen this happen.

She also performs burlesque under perhaps the most awesome stage name ever, Alotta Boutte. And by "performs burlesque," I mean, shows her gigantic ta tas.

She took this photo of herself backstage at BBB using her cell phone.

She lives down the street from me, which means I'm constantly enjoying impromptu socialization. She is my yoga buddy and, when she found out what a shit time I'm having of it today, she sent me a text message that said, "I am bringing you dinner tonight after the show. And if it is too late, it will be dessert."

So, on top of it all, she's become my great friend.

How lucky am I?

Holy Cow

2008-04-09T19:48:00.002-05:00

I keep coming by to the edit page on this post with every intention of writing about this photo, which is one of those images that becomes iconic in a family -- the pic of Che and I in the cooler has been in various frames -- dimestore models upgraded over time to the fancy modern kind with the bevel-cut mats -- in various places since I was four or so.

That cooler has almost talisman status from my childhood. Bright yellow Coleman with a white plastic top. Metal handles. Remember them? Bumpy texture that inevitably retained dirt from campgrounds across the midwest, despite frequent hose-downs. Pop-off white plug to drain the melted ice and spilled beer.

The situation in this photo: the cooler had recently found itself sitting in the back guest room that Che and I used for Saturday-morning cartoon watching. Not sure how, but I suspect it was related to my father. My mother is just a little too organized to not ensure that the cooler makes it back down to the garage.

It then became a carriage -- there were imaginary horses and somewhere, not in this shot, but somewhere, there were two long pieces of fluffy pink yarn I had fashioned into harnesses. We were trotting over the river and through the woods for a couple of hours of early-morning cartoons before mom and dad stumbled upon us, sleepy-eyed.

I don't ever remember Rachel being this young. She was a little person to me already, at this point in our lives. A co-conspirator. But this is clearly evidence to the contrary.

getting flak: Little Johnny Jewel

2008-04-08T21:18:00.000-05:00

getting flak: Little Johnny Jewel

Gorgeous post from a fellow geek. . .

It was about that time he developed his crank habit. He was wired everytime I saw him; grinding his teeth, eyes like pinpoints.

Definition of "Perfect"

2008-04-06T21:09:00.003-05:00

Being woken up from a sex dream by the person you were dreaming of. Saying, "I was just having a sex dream about you." Hearing, "Let's make it come true."

Yes, My Pants Are Too Damn Big

2008-04-03T18:16:00.001-05:00

Welcome to the bullshitosphere, Bresee.

An array of excellent Quotes from the week

2008-04-03T12:24:00.002-05:00

"Let's face it, who doesn't love street meat!"

"I don't have time for this -- I've got a shotgun wedding to plan!"

"You're funny. you're like a younger smarter me who doesn't make all the mistakes i did."

RE: The coming season of BSG: "I'm at the edge of my penis."

Please Y'all

2008-03-31T14:33:00.000-05:00

it doesn't work without everyone's participation!

A Botanist, though?

2008-03-30T19:58:00.003-05:00

I am getting my brain around this. I want to do some word vomit on it, but I need to noodle first. In the meantime, I would like to challenge the claims-he-has-writers-block Baywatch to comment.

I'm truly interested -- as he is a dabbler in the astronomical, and I am a sci-fi geek.

I feel like he'll have some true, physics-based reasoning, while my mind spins at this:

Some physicists have theorised that black holes might act as spacewarp wormhole portals into alternate universes, or something. Summarising, it appears that the boffins at the LHC - should one of them clumsily spill his tea on the controls, for instance - could easily catapult the entire world through a rift in the very fabric of space-time, into another universe which could be entirely hostile to life as we know it. (Eg, essential processes such as fermentation of alcohol, TV, pizza delivery, gravity etc might simply not work; or there could be a parallel Earth ruled by an evil victorious Nazi empire with space battlecruisers and so forth.)

No pizza delivery? The HUMANITY!

Nazi alternate universe? didn't I read they're making a movie out of that book?

Just one of the ten thousand reasons I'm glad I'm no longer a fourteen-year-old girl

2008-03-26T21:35:00.003-05:00

Brief chat tonight with my niece:

rebecca: Hey there! Haven't seen you online in awhile and was just thinking of you!
jessica: crappy and i am about to hit her in the face untill she BLEEDS
rebecca: excuse me?
jessica: can i talk to you another time...my supposed best hates me
rebecca: oh that's big drama -- certainly
jessica: thanks
rebecca: ten four
jessica: bye

***

Two quick observations:
1. omg I sound old and dorky
2. it's a little comforting that the Internet hasn't changed things THAT much. We'd just be doing this using three-way calling fifteen years ago. (Ah. NINETEEN YEARS AGO. Shit, I need a drink. Another reason it rocks to be old.)

Mission Accomplished

2008-03-25T09:46:00.003-05:00

Um, why did I think that Walking Across The Golden Gate Bridge was on this list?

I had this whole sort of triumphant-tone-of-achievement planned for this post and I, um, don't see it on the list.

Anyhow, mom and I did spend a gorgeous Easter Sunday afternoon touristing it up by hoofing the span. Pictures by Mom.

This one is artsy. I kind of think I look like Michael Jackson, tho.

Maybe it's the "no nose" look. . .

Dream come true

2008-03-24T11:24:00.002-05:00

I mentioned earlier that I'm tapering off my meds, resulting in various fun neurological side effects. While the vertigo, nausea, headrushes -- not so fun -- the vivid acid theater of the nighttime mind is kinda enjoyable.

No joke I actually dreamed that Spliffey did this, and she DID.

I feel so warm and fuzzy. And all powerful. And dorky.

Normal day.

My Dad's The One In The Red Shirt.

2008-03-22T16:14:00.001-05:00

Weather Report

2008-03-22T13:41:00.002-05:00

Oh, my.

I do not miss this.

I miss you people, but I do not miss the winter that lasts until May.

I don't miss the anger that hits right about. . . now. . . when you realize that GOD HATES AMERICA and will not let you enjoy the outdoors for two more months.

I do, however, adore the bright sunshine-y day outside my window, the wearing flip flops while picking up coffee on my way back from Saturday morning yoga, the orchids blooming on my doorstep.

Me me me me me meme

2008-03-21T16:57:00.003-05:00

Wow, I'm kinda honored/feel like I cashed in some kinda Internet favors frivolously, but both TB and McDub actually did that meme thing that I did when Luc made me. I don't know if I feel used by the Internet or like a tight-knit community of self-important assholes.

Or, wait, both.

Yeah, and then some.

Only because it's 3:37AM and I can't sleep. . .

2008-03-21T05:27:00.002-05:00

I'm gonna meme it. I know it's kinda dumb, but Luc made me do it.

And I don't think the q's are that lame.

And enough with the boring qualifiers. Let's get to the other boring stuff.

1. I can't believe I've never
- been to China
- walked across the Golden Gate Bridge (note to self, make mom do that this weekend)
- found what I'm looking for
- figured out what I'm looking for
- what?

2. Every time I think about . . . I still cringe
That time I boldly approached Ira Glass in the Art Institute of Chicago, reached out to shake his hand, introduced myself: "Hi, I'm Rebecca! And. . . " Completely went blank. No joke. Firmly shaking Ira's hand, him looking at me with a warily expectant expression, I had absolutely nothing to say. He dismissed me and walked away. Holy Shit, why did you make me think about that?

3. I wish I’d…when I had the chance.
Left poor Ira alone.

4. I’ve never felt so out of place as when I… Was at Jenny's twenty-fifth birthday party in the Marina, and Baron Davis showed up. Jenny, I love you, but wow that was surreal for an old lady like me.

5. …is/are my guiltiest pleasure. When I first moved to Chicago, in my early twenties, I had very few friends and a horrific job. Even though I had never in my life watched it, I became addicted to reruns of The Nanny. Somehow, I found it outrageously comforting. Possibly because it was on approximately forty times a day. And I was dirt poor and had nothing better to do but to watch my rabbit-eared tiny tv.

Years later, I was telling Johnny about this. He shared with me his early Chicago addiction -- Just Shoot Me.

Made me feel better about my irrational attachment to Fran Drecsher.

6. I hope…knows how grateful I am for…
My grandmother, for making me laugh at every family function. She often lets me do things like this just to amuse me:

7. In my darkest hours, I secretly blame…for my dysfunction.

You know who you are.

8. …changed my life forever. D'uh. DeeP.

Probs won't do it cuz they're too busy being cool/sleeping, but tagging:

TB/Mcwhirt/spliffey

Well, wow, that killed, like, 23 minutes.

Wonder if sleep will come, now?

The President Was Just Speaking To His "Destroy All Humans" Base

2008-03-21T04:57:00.000-05:00

Things You Do As You Fall Asleep

2008-03-20T12:06:00.002-05:00

You start out all warm, radiating heat and breath.

The weight of your arms and legs press into mine and we are silent in our cocoon.

Then the twitches start, the electric shocks as your body finally lets go of consciousness, tiny, almost imperceptible rapid pulses in your arms, your legs, your fingers glaze my back as they perform their St. Vitus dance.

I pull my arm tighter around you.

You moan.

We sleep.

There is a sweetness, there.

Dear Johnny, Luc , and Nora

2008-03-17T21:25:00.002-05:00

Ya'll are straight up assholes.

And I love it.

The Badass Skinny Man

2008-03-11T09:29:00.002-05:00

Hey, Spliffe! THANKS!

The magical combination of your riff on nineties nostalgia combined with your toss-off random comment about the latest Nick Cave album was like some sort of fabulous spell that compelled me to unearth that 1994 classic, Let Love In. I'm shivering with excitement at being reunited with this album.

Oh, Nick Cave. You're so baritone!

But, do you love me? Like I love you?

Dear Post Secret

2008-03-10T10:28:00.001-05:00

You make me cry every week.

Making A List

2008-03-08T19:29:00.002-06:00

A la Maggie Mason, the first of my 100 things to do before I die

1. Go on a yoga retreat in the Sierra Nevadas
2. See JD and The Blenders perform in St. Petersburgh.
3. Visit Annevan's childhood home in France
4. Stay up all night in Tokyo
5. Drink coffee in Amsterdam
6. Meet someone who will make me laugh every day until I die
7. Have a short story published
8. Spend the night in Walter De Maria's Lightning Field
9. Go to Alaska
10. See a whale
11. Knit a scarf
12. Ride another century
13. See Chave perform in Beach Blanket Babylon
14. Sky Dive
15. Get a tattoo with Che
16. See Dad win his NAB Lifetime Achievement Award
17. Walk on a black sand beach in Hawaii
18. Be in the delivery room for Che's first bambino
19. Have a giant dance party with everyone I love
20. Fix up an old house
21. Plant a garden
22. Make coconut cupcakes for my grandma again
23. Read Jane Eyre. No, I haven't read Jane Eyre.
24. Read Wuthering Heights. Ditto. Sorry, mom.
25. See Sleater Kinney play live again. (Get Sleater Kinney back together.)

Things I Am Doing Today

2008-03-08T11:09:00.005-06:00

Cream in my coffee, milk in my cereal.

Finally removing all the dishes from the sink, like an excavation of the last three days -- stuck on dried grains of rice, waterlogged bits of vegetable, coffee grounds and eggshells.

Washing everything. The sheets, jeans, underwear, washing even the washcloths.

Waking up.

Hugging muscle to bone, skin to muscle, breathing in and out through my nose, holding here, breathing into the space, getting long through the spine.

Sitting still while someone else meticulously grooms my hands -- cut, file, remove cuticles, perfectly polish.

Letting it all wash over me, because there's nothing else to do.

Returning text messages, emails, finally attending to that stack of bills in the corner.

Red wine, good friends.

Planning my trip.

Planning Johnny's visit.

Figuring out how to get a Russian visa.

Appreciating it all.

What are you Yelle-ing about??

2008-03-05T13:33:00.002-06:00

Annevan, my Frienchie friend, has introduced me to some addictive French girl pop/rapper named Yelle (please note, the site may just give you seizures, so maybe listen but don't look).

me: how can you sing along, as a non french speaker, to Yelle without sounding like a korean gameshow contestant doing beatles songs on karaoke?

Anne: truth is: you can't.
btw, she's singing about nasty stuff -- Avenue D or Peaches style

me: Well, she definitely has a Peaches sound.*
Can you give me a hint as to what she's saying?
something about magazines and marie claire

Anne: mmm, I just listened to 1 song -- something about doing it. I don't remember exactly
ha ha
I'm reading some lyrics on line
she has a song called "parle a ma main", which means "talk to my hand:

me: I bought the cd on itunes, I'll burn it for you post haste
it's a blast

Anne: and she refers to "mes biatches"
ha ha ha

me: HAHAHA
I love it when the frenchies get badass

Anne: "Les mecs ils sont tous nuls" = guys are all losers

me: it sounds so silly

Anne: "Girls Power!! hum hum
Alors vas t'acheter une vie t'es pas dans ma liste d'amis"
the 2nd line is: so go buy yourself a life, you're not on my list of friends
"Girls Power!! hum hum" -- HA HA HA
Sent at 10:57 AM on Wednesday

me: HAHA

me: I understand from her Facebook page that she rose to fame on myspace.com when she posted a song titled "Short Dick Cuizi", dissing Cuizinier, a member of the Parisian hip-hop group TTC.
Who is this "cuizinier?"

Anne: no idea. there's the loop - over there. and here's me -- out of that loop.

me: that's an excellent illustration. Thanks
At any rate, apparently he has a short dick, and she has been able to really capitalize on that.

*Amazing that if you Google the word "Peaches," the first result is not about fruit, but about the crazy semi-porno pop star

In Which I Cling To The Tressy Tendrils Of Youth

2008-03-01T20:22:00.002-06:00

Today I got my hair cut and colored.

Ally, the positively delightful bleach-blond, tattooed pseudo stoner who designs my 'do, recommended a shock of cherry red highlights. Then she showed me a new tattoo, of two kewpie dolls, one brown, one white, on her wrist. "This is me and my boyfriend as babies. Sitting on a record player. He requested that he be browner than me, so!"

My first reaction -- am I too old for this? Was followed closely by -- if I'm not, I'd better do it while I still can.

Video Chat W/Johnny's New Coat

2008-02-23T17:27:00.003-06:00

Guilty As Charged

2008-02-20T14:53:00.001-06:00

Does it help that I stole it from Johnny?

If you look at the DVD collection of a white person (even those without a TV), it will contain “The Work of Director Michel Gondry”.

Soaking In It

2008-02-19T21:02:00.002-06:00

I've been surfing a wave of nostalgia lately, digging up old music and rolling around in it like a black lab in a pile of shit.

I'm surprised you can't smell it on me now.

In this edition, we're visiting high school -- where my boif Jason was busily giving me a full education on the history of new wave. I mean, I wasn't in high school in the early eighties, but that's where I was introduced to the twisted delights of Oingo Boingo.

Ah, Danny Elfman. Delighting children for generations with the theme from The Simpsons, the rollicking, original songs from The Nightmare Before Christmas -- and every Tim Burton film, for that matter.

And, kinda, every film and tv show in the last ten years.

oh, and this gem:

On the joys of molesting young girls. Isn't it a dream come true? Isn't it a nightmare too?

(PS: I had no idea until I googled this that there was A VIDEO with A CHORUS OF MIDGETS in existence. I fucking love the Internet.)

TaperWorm

2008-02-19T18:57:00.002-06:00

So, now has come the time for me to taper off my meds, something I have been terrified of doing now for years.

But, I gotta be a man, man.

Started on Saturday. Since it was a long weekend, its hard to say if I'm having any neurological symptoms yet, or if I've just been supes hungover.

Today the volume seems turned up on things, and I have a little buzzing, not unlike when you drink eight iced lattes on a hot afternoon and spend the rest of the day jolting out of your chair because WHAT WAS THAT OMG???

Fun times! Three days down. 27 to go.

What Happens At Hoover Dam

2008-02-19T03:53:00.001-06:00

WHAT ARE YOUR OBJECTIVES?

2008-02-18T13:29:00.003-06:00

If you've met me, you probably have heard this phrase.

It's a bit of a riff on what I do for a living -- ie: be anal -- but it is also an astonishingly good and effective way to prioritize, plan, and accomplish most anything.

Plus, I have a perverse sense of humor and find this whole process hilarious. No one else gets as much kick as me out of the phrase "Leverage economies of scale," below. HA!

Jesus, no wonder I'm single.

Objectives:

Strategies:

Tactics/Timeline:

Oh, yeah -- VEGAS! I almost forgot

2008-02-18T13:05:00.003-06:00

But finally uploaded pictures. Thank you, President's Day!

Isn't my sister gorgeous? I can't stand it.

Alright, much to write up. I know you're waiting with baited breath to read about it.

PS: Sorry, Mike, but this is making me cackle out loud and I am alone in the privacy of my own home:

The Astonishing Douchebaggery of Bobby Flay

2008-02-16T19:27:00.002-06:00

Tivo, that bastard, is the reason I don't blog more.

I mean, it means I don't have to watch whatever is on -- so I never stare slack-jawed at the Food Network for hours at a time.

But today,Tivo reached out his little, brightly colored tentacles, caressed my cheek, and said, "Baby, you worry too much. Put the remote down. Sometimes, you've got to let someone else take over. Let me choose for you. Put your feet up, and let me take care of you."

I sagged with relief and we watched, together, hour after hour of various programs, all of which featured Bobby Flay.

Who is an astonishing douchebag.

Witness -- Throwdown With Bobby Flay.

So, basic premise is thus:

Each show starts with some unsuspecting small town proprietor of a local favorite hangout, which is regionally famous for (insert home cookin' example here).

They pick this person out -- say, the woman in Nashville, Tennessee, who is famous for her buttermilk biscuits with blackberry jam. They tell said lady she's going to be star of a Food Network special about singing in the kitchen. They hire some singers and tape all these segments while she excitedly films her special on Food Network.

In the meantime, Bobby Flay is developing his own version of said specialty -- in this case, biscuits and jam -- and calls in all these consultants and develops some massively ambitious, pretentious, alternative -- in this case, his biscuits had pepper. He didn't like the original fig and strawberry jam, so he created a lemon/orange BLUEBERRY marmalade.

Then BF interrupts the woman while she's demonstrating her stuff. She's all -- BOBBY FLAY!!!

And then BF says, ARE YOU READY FOR A THROWDOWN?

Then makes the woman compete in blind taste tests -- her stuff vs. his. Woman not only now finds out she doesn't have her own show, she finds out that Bobby Flay is swooping in to prove that SHE AIN'T THE BEST, Y'ALL!

In every case BOBBY FLAY WINS and then ACTS SHOCKED AND HUMBLED.

In the case of the woman who made the apple pie sunday that he beat, he said, "I was really impressed. I mean, her idea -- it was so obvious. But I didn't think of it."

Why does this douche have so many shows?

We've been friends since 1995 and I just now think of this???

2008-02-11T17:51:00.001-06:00

me: annetastic
Anne: fucktastic
me: WHY have I not thought of that before?
ANNETASTIC
HAHAHAHA
I need sleep.
Anne: ha. love it.
it took you 13 years, friend!
that's annetastic!
me: I KNOW

The Entertainer in my House

2008-02-02T13:33:00.000-06:00

The Russians are here.

Well, Misha is Russian. Jennifer is from Indianapolis. But she moved to St. Petersburg after college. In college we called her "Crazy Jen," but now she's "Russian Jen."

Here they are (the two on the left) at a concert:

Anyhoo -- old girl pops back in my life once a year, and we have a fabulous time together. Somehow, my old friend from college is now a national treasure in Russia. How strange.

She has two bands.

JD and the Blenders is her personal pet project. Some kind of Soul gig.

Seeing this video on youtube was a little like the episode of friends where Pheobe has a professional video made. I'm sorry that comparison is so lame. But I couldn't think of a better one. Anne and I were flabbergasted. Jen was horrified: "Look how they focused on my LIPS! WHY DID THEY DOO THAT?"

Us: why are you wearing a wig?
Her: Oh, they made me do that.

Apparently that crazy guy at the end is a very famous rock musician in Russia.

There are tons of these videos on Youtube. National televison appearances, amazing Russian hairstylings.

kinda sez it all, huh.

2008-01-29T22:57:00.001-06:00

it ain't so bad when you're loved

2008-01-29T19:03:00.000-06:00

Xtine sent these, and then told me to "say they're from a secret admirer"

Unfortch, since I'm totally not 14, I cannot say that with any semblance of believability.

She also said that she had ordered them before I got all weepy on her ass for no reason, but I find that hard to believe.

Either way, how nice it is to have such lovely people in your life.

Sunday Afternoon

2008-01-29T17:22:00.000-06:00

Was rainy and cold.

Anne and I treated ourselves to pedicures and then shivered in line for coffee with other disheveled-looking psuedo-hipsters. We complained about the hardships of winter.

Then I happened to notice that we were both wearing flip flops.

I love being an asshole Californian.

I'm becoming obsessed with Michael Cera

2008-01-26T12:35:00.000-06:00

I mean, I've known a lot of hilarious nineteen year olds in my day -- most of them tended toward the obnoxious. I love how Michael Cera consistently underplays and self deprecates. I would love to meet this kid in person.

I wanna be her Joey Ramone

2008-01-25T11:45:00.000-06:00

Always been a fan of Dan Savage. But his podcast has truly taken my infatuation to a new level.

You can just hear the sweetness in that man's voice as he calls people "selfish fucks" or whatever sort of obscenities he's tossing about.

This week, though, the whole thing really topped itself when he featured a woman whose specific kink is as she puts it, "really good words." She owns multiple dictionaries, which she regards as her own little porn stash. She describes a romantic, kinky relationship she had wherein she would rifle through them to find words to describe the emotions of her beloved. She likes to talk dirty using her own multi-syllabic, obscure and esoteric erotic sentences.

I totally want to have sex with that chick.

LinkLove

2008-01-23T09:03:00.000-06:00

Luc says, "Apple is back and she's better than ever." And lo, it's true.

Meanwhile, Spliffe gives me a nerdgasm with her clause-related grammar ranting.

Baywatch is neglectful, and McWhirter describes my favorite corporate Christmas gift in vivid technitasty color.

It's a lovely crop of words thriving in the rich loamy topsoil of the Internet.

Carry on.

PS

2008-01-22T00:23:00.001-06:00

Co Birthday Conspirators, originally uploaded by emily gingersnap.

So cute, they are.

In The Case Of Man V. Nature

2008-01-22T00:18:00.001-06:00

2007-2008 290, originally uploaded by emily gingersnap.

In my mind, no trip to Las Vegas is worth its salt if you don't sneak away and visit Hoover Dam. I've been there at least five times, at this point, which is kind of weird, because I'm super familiar with the layout and such. Don't usually get so intimately involved with national landmarks.

But this thing is amazing. It is a kind of almost-inconceivable feat of engineering and human spirit and brute force that defined an era and determined the future of the entire Southwest. Built in a time where there was still something to conquer in the United States, when people could and did suffer and die to conquer it.

It's comprised of enough concrete to build a four-foot wide sidewalk around the entire equator. Over 400 people died while making this bridge, along with at least one dog.

Lake Mead sits in the desert like an impossible mirage, this gorgeous mediterranean blue green between brown, rocky mountains. It shouldn't even be there, but for pure human will.

We marveled at it for a minute, quiet, awed.

Christine, a landscape architect, pragmatic idealist, and delightful person overall, breaks out a most lilting declaration:

"We win."

(Still can't find my effing photo cable. So Here's Em's photos.)

Oh

2008-01-21T13:56:00.001-06:00

2007-2008 208
Originally uploaded by emily gingersnap

aren't we fun?

Overheard in Las Vegas

2008-01-21T01:18:00.000-06:00

At the Star Trek Experience: Outside the "Deep Space Nine" section:

Geek one: Huh, Deep POOP Nine.
Geek two: Huh, totally.

on becoming someone else's fiction

2008-01-18T01:34:00.000-06:00

So, my first real job out of college I worked at this tiny, four-person pr agency. It was run by a woman who really liked to yell.

And say things like, "a monkey could do your job."

And six people quit in the six months I worked there.

Four after one day.

One after one week.

But anyhow, I digress. Point being that my job was to open and sort through mail, among other things.

And one day this beautifully produced, thick, creamy post card landed on my desk. It had three bands of color across the front, a rose, a blue, a yellow. And in white, bold text, it said, "Become someone else's fiction."

And I kept it. And sort of pondered it a lot -- what does that mean? It seems dashingly romantic, that notion.

It was an ad, for a printing company. Random, don't know who. But it sort of morphed into this mysterious message from the universe to me. Something to ponder.

It has hung on every wall of every apartment I have lived in since I found it ten years ago.

Sometimes, it's all about creating a dashing, idealized world to populate, about abandoning to the impulses of my own imagination. Creating a more vivid world than the one I live in to inhabit for a minute or a day or an hour.

A place to linger where your choices are not your own, but are driven by the plot. There's something adventurous about the notion. Something reckless.

It hung everywhere except my apartment now, the place I have lived in a new city for almost a year. Where I've become someone else, somehow.

Where maybe I don't want to be someone else's fiction, the construct of someone else's fantasies, someone else's will.

I kind of like living my own reality. Or at least I recognize it as the place with the most rewarding possibilities.

Is that grown up?

Or am I just really, really stoned?

Earlier tonight Annevan and I actually watched this movie, or fifteen minutes of it -- it's sort of a tragic tale about a smart young woman trapped in a backwater small town somewhere in Humbolt County. Raised by ex hippies, she embraced a more rock-and-roll image. But what she really wants, above all else, is a shot at a show on the Food Network. So she does the only thing she knows how -- she makes a show that's all her own.

Shots of her cooking steaks, "the size of my ass cheek," are intersperced with images of she and her friends smoking up, shooting guns randomly off the back porch of their house. The fades between scenes always include fireworks and heavy metal riffs. Her cooking is awkwardly punctuated when she unconvincingly takes shots of jim beam straight from the bottle. She wipes her lips in slo mo.

We took pictures of the tv, to illustrate for you, dear reader, but I can't find the damn camera cable.

Yep, definitely stoned.

Vegas tomorrow, woot.

Hungover at work?

2008-01-16T15:06:00.001-06:00

Wouldn't know ANYTHING ABOUT THAT. But if I did, I would tell you to watch Cute with Chris.

I love how angry he is.

Monthly Newsletter: Month Three Hundred and Sixty*

2008-01-15T17:15:00.000-06:00

Dear Rachel:

Today you turn three-hundred-and-sixty months old, or, thirty.

Welcome to the Great Beyond, the post-twenties, the promised land of the gloriously self-assured. Now, you are officially Coming Into Yourself.

You are the prettiest girl I know.

You're also the person I've known the longest. And, if we can just make this about me for one moment, my relationship with you is probably the one that most defines me as a person. I am, at my core, the Big Sister. Just ask Susan. (Sus, you're the other prettiest girl I know.)

Remember when we were little? I kinda hated you then. You were so annoying. Our activities together included:

You beating the crap out of me. Me restraining myself because I felt sure I could crush you on accident and I was kind of a frightened kid that way. Later, you joining up with Ryan and Ty Baxter in order to form a tiny gang of angry rebel four-year-olds who would jump up on me like the Lilliputians taking down Gulliver. One would punch my stomach, then, as I was hunched over in pain, the others would attack from all sides. Later, I would complain to our father, who just basically thought it was hilarious. He couldn't understand why I didn't just drop kick each of you. What can I say? I was a bookish kid.
Car trips. The most classic of all American childhood experiences. Screaming at each other in the back seat.

Fighting over the coveted middle seat, which had the adjustable seatbelt that didn't cut off circulation at the waist.
Later, when dad brought home the first of many Suburbans (he was an early adopter, in 1984), we would create a nest in the way-back.
Dad once got so sick of us fighting he literally dropped us off by the side of some country road and drove away. Clear out of sight. I remember thinking, "This is it." I immediately started looking for a farmhouse we could trek to, began planning how I would protect you. I couldn't have been more than eight. You five. He came back and got us, of course, but it was a harrowing two minutes.
There's that one time we went to Michigan with mom and made her crazy by speaking in Pig Latin the entire time. That was kind of awesome. Until we locked your fingers in the door of the Camry. That sucked.
Of course, there's also that time that Dad and I left you at the rest stop on the way to Ohio for Thanksgiving.
And didn't notice you weren't sleeping in the way back until an hour later.
And it was totally my fault.
And it was before cell phones.
And we laugh about that now; it's a classic tale, but I don't mind telling you, sometimes in the dark of the night, I'll wake up in a cold sweat, my heart in my stomach, imagining what could have been. My love for you is so very fierce, baby sister.

But dude, you were so cute. And now you're thirty fucking years old. And we're gonna celebrate in Vegas, with our cousin Emily, who is also thirty fucking years old this week. Che, here's the thing -- I've got a weakness for redheaded babies. She might have been cuter:

Okay, no. She' s not.

Here's some other quick highlights:

You shaved your fucking head in high school. Twice. That is so goddamn badass.
You've never been afraid. Ever. Ever.
You're the fiercest girl I know. And the most compassionate. I admire you so much.
Your class of fourth graders is the luckiest.

Can you tell how much I dig you baby sister?

Happy birthday, sweetie.
(note how I'm inexplicably giving the thumbs-up here.)

*yes, I am totally doing this to amuse myself. And Sarah. Sorry, Che.

Reuinion Tour Of The Decade

2008-01-14T20:55:00.000-06:00

So, I came across this poster today while I was trekking to Walgreen's to refill my crazypill prescription:

INFORMATION SOCIETY -- ORIGINAL LINEUP!!

Remember them? They sang that riotous 1988 pop sensation What's On Your Mind (Pure Energy).

Until this moment I sort of regarded the band as a one-hit wonder -- however, according to Wikipedia, they are huge with the Latinos:

They are known for their loyal fan base in Brazil, Japan, Spain and Mexico.

Well, and the Japanese. And let's face it, they're just an easy target when it comes to pop culture.

Regardless, the band stands out in my mind, because my fourteen-year-old self always thought the spiky-haired, skinny mod lead singer looked like a dead ringer for my cousin Jonathan. (Jonathan, can I not find a picture of you on the Internets? Only your very distinguished-sounding bio. Shame on me for having none on my Flickr page. I will remedy that situation this weekend.)

So dreamy.

I look now and see no resemblance, honestly.

But now I totally have that song in my head.

Dear Luc

2008-01-13T23:47:00.000-06:00

I stumbled upon this portrait of you on Flickr, and I just. . .

I never knew you to be so patriotic.

(luc, fyi)

January

2008-01-13T19:32:00.000-06:00

My mother asked me, when I was back in Southern Indiana for the Holidays, in a tentative voice as if she didn't really want to know the answer:

Does living there help you with your depression?

Me: Do you mean the seasonal kind?
Her: Yes.
Me: Don't know yet, haven't been through the whole year.

It does get gloomy, cloudy, rainy, dismal, for weeks at a time.

You can still go outside and be comfortable, which helps, but it kinda sucks, too. The days are still shorter.

But then I have barely survived the Holidays, and San Francisco gives me a day like today, with a promise of more in store. The sun is different, still with that harsh, slanted quality of winter light. It casts severe, unyielding shadows and is somewhat relentless in its brilliance. It insists that you squint. But it does its job, warming my skin beneath my sweater, heating up my cheeks so they glow with a ruddy tinge of burn.

Today, for the first time in a very long time (read, a couple of months), the weather was the kind of gentle, misty warm that you want to bask in, fall asleep in.

On my walk, I took care to notice that everything is still blooming.

There is also a shift in the air, a different angle to the sun, that declares that springtime is here. This non-season seasonal change is drastically different from the relief of the thaw in Chicago, with the subsequent burst of life.

But it still a welcome change from late January in the frozen tundra of Chicago -- when you shake off the last dregs of the celebratory season and face a bleak expanse of months of brutal cold before Spring.

It is a relief, tinged with guilt. The guilt comes because of the deeply entrenched staunch belief of Midwesterners that the winter builds character. I'm afraid, somewhere under it all, that this glorious existence will ultimately make me soft.

God fucking forbid, make me a hippy.

Anyway, in the short term, yeah! It's definitely helping my depression.

What a stunning place this is.

Tiny Emo Daniel Day Lewis

2008-01-10T11:25:00.001-06:00

As I mentioned in a previous post, there is this little man I see on the train practically every day who bears a striking resemblance to Daniel Day Lewis -- all dark, gaunt, with piercing blue eyes -- but tiny. And emo.

I've become sort of obsessed with him.

I told my friends about him. We call him Teddl.

Yesterday, when I went to grab some coffee with my friend Hoodia, we passed by Teddl on the street -- and I immediately grabbed her arm, began flailing about and saying, "OH OH OH OH" (sort of like I was having a mini seizure), and whispered in her ear, "THERE'S TINY DANIEL DAY LEWIS!"

It honest-to-god was like a celebrity sighting.

I promised I would attempt a photo. This morning, I caught this blurry image to text to friends:

Ladies and Gentleman, Tiny, Emo, Daniel Day Lewis

in the stars

2008-01-08T23:21:00.000-06:00

me: what?

Luc: What what?

me: who?

Luc: exactly.

me: my horoscope

Luc: What about it.

me: SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): Astronomers say that the Sagittarius
Galaxy is being devoured by our own galaxy. It's getting stretched,
rearranged, and assimilated by our massive gravity. I'd like to offer up this
scenario as a metaphor for you to put into play in the coming week,
Sagittarius. Imagine all the fun and interesting ways that you yourself
could be "eaten." Maybe you could get absorbed into an exciting social
scene, or be integrated into an institution you love, or become part of a
movement you've admired from afar. And maybe you could simply do
what's necessary to get yourself kissed, licked, and sucked all over.

Luc: Is that the Onion?

me: no!
it's some newsletter that annevan subscribed me to
their horoscopes are usually way more sober
this one is particularly racy
what's your sign
I'll send you hors
yours
it won't be as fun as mine, I'm sure

Luc: Taurus

me: but then again
I'll be sleeping alone tonight
TAURUS (April 20-May 20): The longest waves on the planet unfurl in the
place where the Atlantic Ocean flows into the mouth of the Amazon River.
The phenomenon is called the "pororoca" (from a word meaning
"tumultuous noise"), and has become a favorite challenge for surfers. In
2003, a Brazilian daredevil named Picuruta Salazar rode a single wave for
37 minutes, gliding and plowing for almost eight miles. Judging from your
current astrological omens, Taurus, I'd say that's an apt metaphor for the
kind of wave you now have the chance to jump on. If you choose to give
it a whirl, don't plan for a short sweet burst of adrenaline. Be ready for a
long, rollicking balancing act.

Luc: wtf?

me: I kind of like yours

Luc: It's EXTREME!

me: I know
LOL
X-treme!
I would trade you, if it wasn't for the part about getting licked and sucked

Luc: Now, when people ask me how my days going I'm just gonna go, "YEAH!" and jump through the nearest window.

me: first tho
flash the "hang loose" sign

Luc: Hang ten!

me: exact!
XTREME!

When I Was In High School

2008-01-07T21:58:00.000-06:00

I was in the car with Kara, on our way to see some local band at Stevenston Station. Stevenston Station was a big wooden barn-like structure at the intersection of two corn fields where garage bands played in Evansville, Indiana.

Anyhow, she says to me: I wish I had a sign on the outside of my car that broadcasted what music I was listening to.

At which I immediately outwardly scoffed while I inwardly agreed.

Cuz, at 17, I was too cool to admit I want people to think I was cool.

(I'm over that, now, obvs. See: Timberlake, Justin -- my love for.)

So, right.

I give you, Pimpstar.

The best way to tap that hot highway ass.

Monsoon Season

2008-01-04T12:55:00.001-06:00

Later, when I'm not cold and wet and busy, I'll write my treatise on how the bay area FREAKS OUT about the rain.

Like, CAN'T GET TO WORK IT'S RAINING and OMG IT'S GOING TO RAIN and JESUS RAIN RAIN WHAT DO WE DO.

But for now I'll just say -- this new cell phone does take a nice snap, eh?

And

There is a guy on my train -- always in the morning -- who looks like a young emo Daniel Day Lewis. I'm determined to get a covert portrait so you can see for yourself.

Resolutions and stuff.

2007-12-31T20:03:00.001-06:00

1. Listen to smart people.

Read this quote: “Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving” -- Albert Einstein

Remembered to look forward, keep planning, plotting, scheming and cultivating the good stuff.

2. Write stuff down.

Where does all that stuff in my head go if I don't? I go back and read old journals and am amused at the gems that would be completely lost if I didn't write 'em down.

3. Take care.

I'm no longer in the throes of eternal youth. Gotta maintain or I'll die, and that would so suck.

I don't Even Know You But I Hate You*

2007-12-31T13:18:00.000-06:00

TB gives a lotta linklove to this lady here, of whom I have become an anonymous Internet fan.

Hey there, Spliffe, think I'm creepy? (I kinda am, sorry about that.)

Anyhow, I thought of you this morning as I broke out the iPod for the morning commute and decided that I must fire up the most cheerful music possible to get me through the day -- and landed upon that most airy confection, the delicious, cream-filled, sugar-topped beats of one mister JT (whatcha got for me).

And I respect it when you (and those of my peers you're currently representing in my mind, as an unelected official -- I appointed you. Congrats on that.) say:

And Justin Fucking Timberlake is a joke music producers are playing on the listening public. 'I know, let's buy some crap boyband dancer with a smurf voice and park him in front of some good beats. People will think he's not total shit and buy all his albums. It'll be hilarious!' And it is.

I respect what you're saying.

But I love pop.

And JT -- he is the king of my pop addition.

And, as a girl who clawed her way out of the fields of Southern Indiana propelled by the sounds of everything from the Beatles to Jane's Addiction, I understand the need to cling tenaciously to the integrity of quality rock and roll. I get the need to cleave the masses into designations (worthy/not worthy) based upon the music they listen to.

And if it means I'm not worthy, then so be it.

I will not cower in the shadows; I will not be intimidated; I will not fear your scorn.

I will stand proudly and say "I love Justin Timberlake, Goddamnit."

Happy fucking New Year, people.

*I don't hate you. This just popped into my head, because it was one of the most prominent phrases woven throughout my early-to-mid twenties. It's from an Eve song that Johnny and I heard one time. Literally. One time. When he had a beat-up old white Taurus that he used to deliver Dagwood's sandwiches to stoned frat boys throughout Bloomington. When he would come visit me in my Chicago studio apartment, unannounced, and take me on weird adventures, many captured on his super 8 (JT - think we could digitize that shit? Would love to revisit, eh?). Anyhoo, it was the same day we heard Jumpin' Jumpin' for the first time as it blasted flatly from the boom box sitting between us on the bench seat (don't know what happened to the stereo in the dash).

(I'm rambling like an old man now, ain't I?)

The next song we heard was this stunning missive.

We were hungover, the day was one of those sapphire bright sunny winter post-snow reflective sparkling freezing gems that exist only in Chicago.

And she just jumps right in over the sweet twang of a guitar with "I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU BUT I HATE YOU. HOW YOU LIKE IT IF MY GIRL TIED YOU DOWN AND RAPED YOU."

We were stunned with delight. An anthem was born.

Over the years, it morphed in our minds as a screaming punk masterpiece -- we sang it, our friends sang it, we pretended the neighbor's dogs were saying it to us as we walked past, and we didn't hear the song until years later, when the Internet brought us the miracle of FREE STOLEN DIGITAL GOODS.

Johnny and I, drunk one night identified and downloaded it -- and were treated to the greatest disappointment since Santa.

Eve was totally singing it wrong.

What the hell was this? The song had melody? It was slow tempo R & B?

Eve, I don't even know you but I hate you.

Safe enlargement of trouser mice

2007-12-27T09:06:00.000-06:00

Thanks, Spam! You've now introduced me to my absolute favorite new term, "trouser mice!"

Sketch of yesterday

2007-12-24T08:57:00.000-06:00

Billions of people on the Earth, millions in the cities I occupy, crammed into trains for our morning and evening commute, skilled at averting our eyes and plugging our ears with music to create our own sense of personal space --

how could I forget? There are still wide open swaths of prairie land in Southern Indiana. Dad and Sally have staked their own claim outside of Booneville, they dug a lake. They take us out on a brisk, impossibly sunny day to show it off -- Dad in his new black and chrome monster-ish pick up truck.

Sample dialog:
Rachel: Dad, what happened to the red pick up?
Dad: It turned into this one.
Me: Look, Rachel!! It's a Duelly!
Dad: I need it to pull the horse trailers.

Dad has a big brass antique cowbell strapped to the hitch on the back.

Me: Why does dad have a cowbell on his truck?
Sally: Oh, he had to! The other one got stolen!
Me:. . .
Me: But why?
Sally: Oh, he thinks it's cool.

We drive and drive, Sally and I in her SUV behind Dad and Rachel in his monster truck (each with a border collie in the back-seat) until we're driving down long black asphalt roads bisecting fields of bright green winter wheat and brown, brittle truncated stalks of dead corn. Eventually, Sally turns onto a barely-maintained gravel road -- the kind with wheel tracks and grass growing between them. She noses her SUV between two trees into a field of grass surrounded by brush. It has been raining for days and there are flashes of standing water between blades of grass.

Rachel and I are not in the right footgear for this terrain.

We sit in the car while Dad and Sally disappear into the brush to check on the drain for their newly-dug pond.

They vaguely point at areas of their acreage where they will eventually build a barn, a house.

Other people's parents dream of condos in Florida. My dad is plotting his mobile chicken coop, talking about goats.

He has recently read the Omnivore's Dilemma. He climbs back in his massive gas guzzler and lectures us on corn consumption. We head over to the farm where Dad and Sally keep their horses, for now.

It's a series of massive grass fields dotted with piles of fertilizer, bales of hay, and low fences. The horses roam the fields at all times, they graze the grass and roll around in the mud. We drive until we see them in the distance.

Sally pulls out a bucket of feed and starts shaking it, to tempt them over to us. They summarily ignore us. From where we are parked, we can see nothing around us but fields, trees, and the horses. The wind is whipping across the plain and we huddle together while Sally yells for them.

Altogether, they have five horses, but this little group is three -- they eventually notice the presence of treats and amble over to us.

They have massive, muddy hooves and thick, shiny coats. Sally points them out, giving us their names and short descriptions of their personalities:

Buddy - Their first horse, and the sweetest.
Thunder - He kicks sometimes. He's just a colt, really, only two.
Fred - The oldest one. The biggest. He's just an old fart.

They came up close and it occurs to me again how removed from nature my life is -- these animals are massive. I put a hand on Buddy's flank -- he's so warm. They have long necks ropy with muscles and huge, languid eyes. Thunder approaches us and releases a huge snort and whinny. His eyes are red-rimmed and aggressive. Rachel puts out a hand and he sniffs it. The wind turns our ears red and makes our eyes water. The horses turn from us and resume eating from their piles of feed. There is no one else around us. The dogs, trapped in the trucks, whine to get out and herd something.

It's time for us to go. On our way out of the fields dad points out some birds -- wild turkeys. Huge, unusually sleek fowl with long necks that run shockingly fast.

There are twenty of them in all.

We cuddle with the dogs in the back seat and watch the landscape change as Dad navigates us through the backroads back in to town. The houses get closer together. Strip malls with garish neon break up the subdivisions. He deposits us at our aunt's house and kisses us goodbye, for now.

We climb out into yet another realm -- the suburban reality of our Mom's family.

I forgot my camera. So I paint this picture, instead.

Are You Feelin' Cool?

2007-12-23T21:22:00.000-06:00

Download Firefox 3 Beta 2 I am SO ADDICTED to the Awesome Bar, people!

Happy Birthday To Me (and the Annizon)

2007-12-07T12:18:00.000-06:00

There was an onslaught of birthday wishes, and I was a little moved. And happy.

And Maria put together this fabulous postcard for everyone to hear on NPR.

And cried a lot late in the evening. And Anne said

this is what I do on my birthday too.

And I said, you're my best friend, my most sublimely well-tuned
companion. Why on earth can't we be in love with each other?

She said, Yeah, that's just how it is.

We nodded sagely to each other and I hugged her fiercely when she left.

When we parted from our embrace, she smiled hugely and said, "I'm so
fucking tall. It's awesome."

It's true. She's over six feet. My head fits perfectly in the crook of her neck.

What I learned in therapy

2007-11-06T10:01:00.000-06:00

can be very well summed up in a quote at the end of TB's rambling post (it's full of crap that surely only four or five people, of which I am not one, will understand, you can skip that stuff):

So, note to self, take a dash of icewater with your salt and pepper. and remember that not everyone is or needs to be on the same page with you.

Deeeeep breath. We don't have to agree. It's cool! We don't even have to pretend to agree! AH, GREAT RELIEF! I can let those things go and concentrate on more important matters.

Like getting to work, now. Bye.

hasn't anyone else noticed

2007-11-04T01:16:00.000-05:00

how weird those new commercials are?

time and temp

2007-11-03T22:16:00.000-05:00

All this week in Chicago it's going to be hovering about in the mid-forties, early fifties.

All this week in San Francisco is sunny, bright, hovering in the mid-seventies.

I forgot today that it's actually November.

Then, when I remembered, I realized that I am not walking around with the heavy-hearted dread that accompanies the crisp fall days in Chicago. I'm not steeling myself for negative windchills, frozen ground, feet soaked in dirty, icy water from three-day-old snow drifts. No mornings scraping frost from the windows of the car, or, worse - standing on a frigid train platform, huddling in the futility of a down coat, scarf, hat, and gloves. No cursing at the frozen air and asking myself why the FUCK do I live here?

Instead, a month or two of foggy, wet, 50-degree days surrounded by plants that never stop flowering.

No long months of early spring sure that winter will never, ever end.

The freedom from worry is exhilarating. I hardly know how to accept it.

After ten years of frigid winter hell, I'm free.

Fuck. Yeah.

the seventh cell

2007-11-02T00:45:00.000-05:00

I got a new cell phone today.

It flips in different directions so I can be super sleuthy with the texting.

It's the seventh cell phone I've carried (not including the several blackberries and subsequent despided Q I use for email purposes).

Seven -- crazy. Where am I, anyway?

"you can't take a picture of this, it's already gone"

2007-10-26T23:16:00.000-05:00

First, it was the friends getting married.

Then, the friends having babies.

Then, the friends getting divorced.

And honestly, for me, the second and the third happened at about the same time. Almost at the same rate. (Eventually, I hope the babies will prevail over the divorces. For now though, they're almost neck and neck.)

Then, it starts getting weirder.

There's the unexpected milestones. The ones you have no idea are coming, that you really couldn't have been expected to anticipate during your endless, immortal, infallable late teens/twenties/late twenties).

Your friends all stop smoking.

You start avoiding certain bars because everyone is way too young.

The hipsters in your neighborhood are suddenly emulating a completely different look than when you were a young hip kid. Instead of every dude at the Empty Bottle looking exactly like Beck, the dudes at the Sidewalk Cafe are all sporting the dyed black hair and pseudo goth style of the more recent Bright Eyes phase. I'm thinking there's probably some new hipster/music idol/look combo but, frankly, I don't live in the edgy 'hood anymore.

You end up in some kind of senior-ish position at work. You make a ton more money. So do your peers.

Everyone buys homes.

Your friends buy second homes.

Even though you don't have kids (if you're me, anyway), you start identifying with the parents more than the kids.

Most recently, I reflect upon my post-college early twenties as the distant past. The 22 year old girl from a decade ago seems as sweet and innocent as the twelve-year-old sixth grader. I've had a whole other lifetime of growing up.

I don't feel old as much as I feel richer, smarter, calmer, more confident. I am so grateful for the things I've learned.

And no way in hell would I want to go through it again.

I am still shocked and dismayed as I watch American Beauty again, for the first time, since it was in the cinema. And I identify with the middle-aged parents more than the teen-aged kids.