Y'all! I almost forgot! I live a short bus ride from the ocean!
Anne and I played in the ruins of the bathouse and went playing in the waves at ocean beach. There was sand and salt and sun. Total living on vacation day.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Be Jealous.
Y'all! I almost forgot! I live a short bus ride from the ocean!
Anne and I played in the ruins of the bathouse and went playing in the waves at ocean beach. There was sand and salt and sun. Total living on vacation day.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Flowers, stat.
Skipped the farmer's market the last couple of weeks. . . needed a serious flower infusion.
Enter, the poppies. Bursting out of their crazy furry pods within an hour of me putting them in a vase. Unfurling and shedding big furry casings on the table. Brilliantly-hued and tissue paper fragile.
Phew, man. I was suffering a serious gorgeousness defeciency, lately.
Enter, the poppies. Bursting out of their crazy furry pods within an hour of me putting them in a vase. Unfurling and shedding big furry casings on the table. Brilliantly-hued and tissue paper fragile.
Phew, man. I was suffering a serious gorgeousness defeciency, lately.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Okay, right, also
Sarah yesterday was all, "you should take pictures of what you can see from your window!" And I was all, "whatever."
But then, today, I'm looking out my window and -- well, backstory.
So, there is this big green space across the street from me. I understand it used to be a highway onramp, or something, that was subsequently destroyed in the last big earthquake. Anyway, it's this green space the city owns and has been debating for ages about how to develop. It's a weird wild spot in the middle of a pretty dense urban environment. It's completely untended, there are fences and locks all around it. Generally, it's empty, but today I looked out and saw that some crazy homeless guy had broken into the space and was, like, living in the wilderness over there. Rocking a lot and looking around himself in a mentally-ill sort of way. Creepy!
So, I took a picture of that. You really can't see him, which is disappointing, but, still:
But then, today, I'm looking out my window and -- well, backstory.
So, there is this big green space across the street from me. I understand it used to be a highway onramp, or something, that was subsequently destroyed in the last big earthquake. Anyway, it's this green space the city owns and has been debating for ages about how to develop. It's a weird wild spot in the middle of a pretty dense urban environment. It's completely untended, there are fences and locks all around it. Generally, it's empty, but today I looked out and saw that some crazy homeless guy had broken into the space and was, like, living in the wilderness over there. Rocking a lot and looking around himself in a mentally-ill sort of way. Creepy!
So, I took a picture of that. You really can't see him, which is disappointing, but, still:
Dude, I must be high.
So, thanks to Casey, now everyone keeps saying that I'm living on vacation.
Which, kind of, I am -- but it's more like a super intense business trip. Lots of work, lately, so much less time to write about adventures. Or, kind of? To have them. Anyway, so, right -- here's my random photos from my Sunday evening walk.
Today, I walked through the Castro, back through Noe Valley and the Haight.
It's a foggy evening, which is welcome enough after a solid two weeks of dazzling sunshine, crisp, clean, blue-skied days. The type of day where the air is cool, there is a vast temperature difference between sunny spots and shady spots. The type of day where the light pops every little detail into focus, highlights the texture of the walls, creates perfect, sharp, clean lines along the rooftops. Those days are especially dazzling in a place where all the architecture is washed with bright colors, pastels, whites -- the streets become traps for the light, it bursts from every surface except where there are sudden sharp shadows, expanses of dark sidewalk you squint into, stepping back into coolness.
Not, though, this evening -- when the fog rolls over the hills and through the streets, dense billows made up of millions of fine droplets of water, blown by the breeze from the ocean, trapped in the trees and pouring from alleyways, long hills plunge into clouds beneath you, towering peaks above you create whirling vortexes.
It feels like a cool mist on your skin, it creates a sense of sweet melancholy, a sense you can enjoy because you recognize it as just a moment.
It smells like water, and salt, and pungent, sappy green, like sharp eucalyptus, like pot smoke, like grilled meats. It smells like rotting vegetables, some sweet floral smell that evokes my grandmother's Maryland garden. It looks like. . .
well, I guess it looks like this --
Which, kind of, I am -- but it's more like a super intense business trip. Lots of work, lately, so much less time to write about adventures. Or, kind of? To have them. Anyway, so, right -- here's my random photos from my Sunday evening walk.
Today, I walked through the Castro, back through Noe Valley and the Haight.
It's a foggy evening, which is welcome enough after a solid two weeks of dazzling sunshine, crisp, clean, blue-skied days. The type of day where the air is cool, there is a vast temperature difference between sunny spots and shady spots. The type of day where the light pops every little detail into focus, highlights the texture of the walls, creates perfect, sharp, clean lines along the rooftops. Those days are especially dazzling in a place where all the architecture is washed with bright colors, pastels, whites -- the streets become traps for the light, it bursts from every surface except where there are sudden sharp shadows, expanses of dark sidewalk you squint into, stepping back into coolness.
Not, though, this evening -- when the fog rolls over the hills and through the streets, dense billows made up of millions of fine droplets of water, blown by the breeze from the ocean, trapped in the trees and pouring from alleyways, long hills plunge into clouds beneath you, towering peaks above you create whirling vortexes.
It feels like a cool mist on your skin, it creates a sense of sweet melancholy, a sense you can enjoy because you recognize it as just a moment.
It smells like water, and salt, and pungent, sappy green, like sharp eucalyptus, like pot smoke, like grilled meats. It smells like rotting vegetables, some sweet floral smell that evokes my grandmother's Maryland garden. It looks like. . .
well, I guess it looks like this --
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Native?
This morning I went outside and thought, "It is so damn cold."
It was 55 degrees.
It's only been a few weeks.
It was 55 degrees.
It's only been a few weeks.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Um. . . what?
I'm still recovering a little too hard from my night at the most amazing Karaoke bar in the Castro. . . words seem hard. Therefore, I give you Pictures. No, they are not drunken Karaoke pictures, fuck, I didn't get those. They're OMG IT IS BEAUTIFUL OUT pictures.
And this, this must be Daddy:
And this, this must be Daddy:
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
The Inevitable
All throughout the whole moving process I've been quite purposeful and organized, also resolved and at peace with my decision. This has been good -- I had a couple of moments -- one in which I called my friend Susan and just sort of sobbed on the phone in a hysterical, stressed out way and then immediately felt better (while she, I suspect, felt worse. Sorry, friend)-- but mostly kept my cool. Surprisingly.
There has also been the need to put on the good face -- for all the people in my life who are not super happy with this decision. I mean, they'd all say (sincerely, might I add), they're happy for ME, but in a purely selfish way, yeah, it sucks. A friend is leaving. It sucks for me, too, but if I admit that, then I get sad, and if I do that for one person, I'm doing it for all you suckers, and suddenly I'm all morose and moping around and then everyone's like, "aren't you leaving already?? Jeeze! Get a grip!"
ANYHOW, so, the last couple of days, my first days at work, I've been struck with a melancholy of missing people.
Which co-exists with the peace about a good decision thing, but still kind of sucks, because -- d'uh -- I miss my friends.
I also have these moments of missing my comfort zone, even though I am happy to be out of it, it's a good thing, but the neurotic perfectionist in me seriously hates starting a new job. I have this irrational idea that I should know EVERYTHING IMMEDIATELY. And I stress when I don't.
Which, I know, is stupid.
I guess all this is to say -- huh. I kind of have no pithy recap. Just, I suppose, feeling human today.
But still super happy to be here -- it's effing beautiful and my job is cool and the people there are great.
Will go back to donning my super-human suit tomorrow.
GO ME!
There has also been the need to put on the good face -- for all the people in my life who are not super happy with this decision. I mean, they'd all say (sincerely, might I add), they're happy for ME, but in a purely selfish way, yeah, it sucks. A friend is leaving. It sucks for me, too, but if I admit that, then I get sad, and if I do that for one person, I'm doing it for all you suckers, and suddenly I'm all morose and moping around and then everyone's like, "aren't you leaving already?? Jeeze! Get a grip!"
ANYHOW, so, the last couple of days, my first days at work, I've been struck with a melancholy of missing people.
Which co-exists with the peace about a good decision thing, but still kind of sucks, because -- d'uh -- I miss my friends.
I also have these moments of missing my comfort zone, even though I am happy to be out of it, it's a good thing, but the neurotic perfectionist in me seriously hates starting a new job. I have this irrational idea that I should know EVERYTHING IMMEDIATELY. And I stress when I don't.
Which, I know, is stupid.
I guess all this is to say -- huh. I kind of have no pithy recap. Just, I suppose, feeling human today.
But still super happy to be here -- it's effing beautiful and my job is cool and the people there are great.
Will go back to donning my super-human suit tomorrow.
GO ME!
For BSG Dorks
OMG, guys look who I saw on the train --
Right now he's totally either:
a. having invisible mind-sex with a cylon mind chip
b. formulating his memiors designed to rile up the working class
c. betraying the human race
d. riding the N Judah
e. all of the above
(seriously, though, compare and contrast:
You're right. Baltar is way better dressed. I also don't think he rides public transportation. If he wasn't in the brig, I mean.
Right now he's totally either:
a. having invisible mind-sex with a cylon mind chip
b. formulating his memiors designed to rile up the working class
c. betraying the human race
d. riding the N Judah
e. all of the above
(seriously, though, compare and contrast:
You're right. Baltar is way better dressed. I also don't think he rides public transportation. If he wasn't in the brig, I mean.
pink and sparkly
On my way to the library on Sunday I suddenly found myself amid the most amazing parade of little girls in fluffy dresses and sparkly shoes.
Hundreds of little girls. All in little dresses, many looking as if they themselves had picked out the ensemble (think tutu and red cowboy boots).
Turns out the ballet is on the way to the library.
One little girl was pushing a giant teddy bear in a stroller.
This was one block away from a corner where it seriously smelled like a giant cat had pissed, daily, for years.
That's variety for you.
Hundreds of little girls. All in little dresses, many looking as if they themselves had picked out the ensemble (think tutu and red cowboy boots).
Turns out the ballet is on the way to the library.
One little girl was pushing a giant teddy bear in a stroller.
This was one block away from a corner where it seriously smelled like a giant cat had pissed, daily, for years.
That's variety for you.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
OMG SUSAN!
This is right down the street from me.
It's totally a sign.
I mean, yeah, literally, it's a sign, but I meant that in a more metaphysical way -- you know what I'm saying.
Rattle and Roll
Thursday night I was super exhausted from my busy unemployed existence. Seriously. Phew.
So, I snuck into bed early, cozy with my book. I thought maybe the cat was jumping on the bed in a clumsy-boozy-er way than usual, as there was a little shimmy. That lasted longer than it should have.
A couple of thoughts flashed through my head -- starting with that scene in The Exorcist where Regan insists that her bed is shaking. Someone (Dad, I'm looking at YOU) let me see that movie at an outrageously early age, and the idea that I might get possessed by a demon was central in my early phobic period. I remember lying in my bed in the scary dark really trying to make sure that my bed wasn't shaking, a sure-fire early sign of demon possession. Anyway, I dismissed that idea pretty quickly and moved on to the realization that, hot-damn, it's an earthquake! Sweet!
There is a real sense of being in the moment at times like this, when you're feeling the escalation of the quake, a little jumpy and vaguely threatening, like the ground is growling, warning you that it might strike or it might just sit there and eye you warily, but you better just be still, bitch. There was rattling in the kitchen, I thought of things that might fall from shelves and walls.
It lasted forever. Slow shimmy in the quiet.
The phone rang, when it subsided. I ran to answer, and Anne said, "I was just calling to ask IF YOU FELT THAT EARTHQUAKE?"
I was sort of gleeful about the whole thing. It kind of felt punk rock to me.
The whole concept still -- even the ads on the busses for this site, complete with its friendly icons for potential distasters -- CLICK HERE FOR TSUNAMIS -- gives me a sort of dreadful thrill. I kind of want to clap at the insistence that I “DROP, COVER AND HOLD ON.”
I'm aware that this is probably a completely inappropriate reaction, but I'm cool with that. I suspect it's better than being terrified all the time. And, I suppose I'll get a couple of jugs of water and some canned soup or something, just in case.
Just in case the ground goes all PUNK ROCK on me again! EFF YEAH!
So, I snuck into bed early, cozy with my book. I thought maybe the cat was jumping on the bed in a clumsy-boozy-er way than usual, as there was a little shimmy. That lasted longer than it should have.
A couple of thoughts flashed through my head -- starting with that scene in The Exorcist where Regan insists that her bed is shaking. Someone (Dad, I'm looking at YOU) let me see that movie at an outrageously early age, and the idea that I might get possessed by a demon was central in my early phobic period. I remember lying in my bed in the scary dark really trying to make sure that my bed wasn't shaking, a sure-fire early sign of demon possession. Anyway, I dismissed that idea pretty quickly and moved on to the realization that, hot-damn, it's an earthquake! Sweet!
There is a real sense of being in the moment at times like this, when you're feeling the escalation of the quake, a little jumpy and vaguely threatening, like the ground is growling, warning you that it might strike or it might just sit there and eye you warily, but you better just be still, bitch. There was rattling in the kitchen, I thought of things that might fall from shelves and walls.
It lasted forever. Slow shimmy in the quiet.
The phone rang, when it subsided. I ran to answer, and Anne said, "I was just calling to ask IF YOU FELT THAT EARTHQUAKE?"
I was sort of gleeful about the whole thing. It kind of felt punk rock to me.
The whole concept still -- even the ads on the busses for this site, complete with its friendly icons for potential distasters -- CLICK HERE FOR TSUNAMIS -- gives me a sort of dreadful thrill. I kind of want to clap at the insistence that I “DROP, COVER AND HOLD ON.”
I'm aware that this is probably a completely inappropriate reaction, but I'm cool with that. I suspect it's better than being terrified all the time. And, I suppose I'll get a couple of jugs of water and some canned soup or something, just in case.
Just in case the ground goes all PUNK ROCK on me again! EFF YEAH!
Saturday, March 03, 2007
This Guy Is Clearly Crazy.
I saw him RUN UP THE STAIRS from the Muni. Like, hree straight flights. Full on running. Fast.
Also, I had an Irish Car Bomb last night. Did I mention that? Did you know that when you drop the Baileys into the Guiness it curdles? I drank something curdled.
And this guy is running up stairs.
Crazy.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Local Flavor -- Now with very expensive polyester glitter.*
I don't start my new job until Monday.
My stuff came on Friday, which kicked off a three-day unpacking-and-organizing one woman show -- I might have been a little intense during that time. I emerged, blinking and dust-covered on Monday morning thinking, "What now?"
I've been a little task oriented. I think that behavior is something about staving off anxiety (WTF HAVE I DONE?) and other such unpleasantness.
So, this week has been spent, much of the time, going on Adventures, studying my map and plotting public transportation routes with a vengeance.
Yesterday I took a walk down Market Street, which, as it turns out, is both a main byway that bisects the city and a teeming petri dish of crazy. I'm not exactly a stranger to crazy -- Chicago has crazy, they do, I just think, much like kudzu, it's tempered by the harsh winters. In San Francisco, the mild climate and rich fertilizer of liberal leanings and general Bay Area-ness leads to a hearty and varigated display of fully actualized crazy.
Crazy mills about quietly, crowds of crazies act as a general groundcover and a few bloom from the crowd like lovely strange blossoms.
Like this chick:
(Forgive the poor image quality -- it's best to photograph them from behind a cell phone, so you can perpatrate like you are texting)
So, here's what's happening there:
This lady is snappily dressed in leather pants, a fierce leather jacket, and a studded belt. She is wearing white cotton gloves. She is arranging and rearranging the mattresses that fill this dumpster and then yelling down at the milling crowd of groundcover crazies, who are summarily ignoring her. She is yelling: "NOW! PRETTY NOW, YES!" She's a little yoda-like in her grammatical construction, which is a nice touch.
This chick:
Note the bright hues -- the yellow hair, the fushia leggings. I caught this snap of her as she was striding indignantly away from a bank of pay phones(very rare!), where she had been yelling and gesturing wildly into a reciever.
These were the only two lucky shots I got -- later, I went to the Museum of Modern Art, where I actually heard a woman say, as she contemplated a painting, "Nice use of color."
Crazy.
*The local news is covering the upcoming Chinese New Year parade, and the floatmaster just told the intrepid reporter that they used nearly 600 pounds of glitter in the construction of the OVER TWELVE FLOATS -- including these lovely coins, hand-etched out of foam rubber, and covered in "very expensive polyester glitter. The best in the world." Only the best for you, people.
My stuff came on Friday, which kicked off a three-day unpacking-and-organizing one woman show -- I might have been a little intense during that time. I emerged, blinking and dust-covered on Monday morning thinking, "What now?"
I've been a little task oriented. I think that behavior is something about staving off anxiety (WTF HAVE I DONE?) and other such unpleasantness.
So, this week has been spent, much of the time, going on Adventures, studying my map and plotting public transportation routes with a vengeance.
Yesterday I took a walk down Market Street, which, as it turns out, is both a main byway that bisects the city and a teeming petri dish of crazy. I'm not exactly a stranger to crazy -- Chicago has crazy, they do, I just think, much like kudzu, it's tempered by the harsh winters. In San Francisco, the mild climate and rich fertilizer of liberal leanings and general Bay Area-ness leads to a hearty and varigated display of fully actualized crazy.
Crazy mills about quietly, crowds of crazies act as a general groundcover and a few bloom from the crowd like lovely strange blossoms.
Like this chick:
(Forgive the poor image quality -- it's best to photograph them from behind a cell phone, so you can perpatrate like you are texting)
So, here's what's happening there:
This lady is snappily dressed in leather pants, a fierce leather jacket, and a studded belt. She is wearing white cotton gloves. She is arranging and rearranging the mattresses that fill this dumpster and then yelling down at the milling crowd of groundcover crazies, who are summarily ignoring her. She is yelling: "NOW! PRETTY NOW, YES!" She's a little yoda-like in her grammatical construction, which is a nice touch.
This chick:
Note the bright hues -- the yellow hair, the fushia leggings. I caught this snap of her as she was striding indignantly away from a bank of pay phones(very rare!), where she had been yelling and gesturing wildly into a reciever.
These were the only two lucky shots I got -- later, I went to the Museum of Modern Art, where I actually heard a woman say, as she contemplated a painting, "Nice use of color."
Crazy.
*The local news is covering the upcoming Chinese New Year parade, and the floatmaster just told the intrepid reporter that they used nearly 600 pounds of glitter in the construction of the OVER TWELVE FLOATS -- including these lovely coins, hand-etched out of foam rubber, and covered in "very expensive polyester glitter. The best in the world." Only the best for you, people.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Call Me Dorothy
Hi, Bitches:
The ten of you (most of whom actually speak to me on a regular basis, go figure) who read this here Web Log have been complaining to me (again, mostly in person) that I haven't posted since my compelling deconstruction of Road House.
That's true. I've been in a serious Transition Period, involving many, many boxes and logistics and dollars, among other things.
Most recently, I spent the last week or so being Jobless and Homeless, as the movers had taken my stuff into the big truck and carted it off. I like to refer to the last week as my regression period, which was spent couch surfing and having night after night of rich Goodbye Dinners, each of which included many glasses of alcoholic beverage and subsequent Sleeping It Off mornings.
I also had one night wherein Ellen came to visit me at Susan's house and we smoked weed and watched tv. And I realized -- I am That Guy -- That Guy who, jobless and homeless, couch surfs and gets high with his buddies in your living room while you're out leading a productive life.
Alas, that segment, the intersticial, responsibility-less segment, is over, and now I am sitting on the floor of my empty new apartment, hijacking some sucker's open wifi, sharing with you the small miracle of my Arrival in San Francisco, AKA The Beginning Of My New Life.
So, the cat? On the plane? She didn't like that. All I have to say is that the roaring of the plane's engine, while probably super stressful for the furball, definitely drowns out her plantive mewling. Which is less "mewling" and more "freaky angry yowling." Mewling just sounds way more charming that that loud, definitively non-human sound old girl makes.
Christine, AKA Fauxnica, brought her perky ass to the airport to pick me up in an electric car, which is incredibly apropos. I had much crap that needed to go, including a cat in a bag.
Then, when we got into the city? Goddamn if there wasn't a RAINBOW. In the sky. Which I captured poorly with my cell phone -- and have posted for posterity here.
Let's just do a quick compare and contrast --
Chicago? Bitch gives me three solid weeks of -19 windchill toe-and-ball freezing weather.
San Francisco? RAINBOW.
Fauxnica, ever the philosopher, had this to say:
Fauxnica: You know what they say about rainbows, don't you?
Me: Pot of gold?
Fauxinca: No, Rainbows are what happens when you mix sun and rain.
Thanks, captian science. Romantic, she is not. Fashionable? Fuck yeah.
So, then we get to the apartment and damn if AnneVan didn't leave me PLANTS in every room, and a liitle Care Package that included that essential home staple, toilet paper.
Damn, life is good.
Hey, guys? Guess what?
I LIVE IN SAN FRANCISCO!
Okay, gotta let the movers in. Let the unpacking begin.
The ten of you (most of whom actually speak to me on a regular basis, go figure) who read this here Web Log have been complaining to me (again, mostly in person) that I haven't posted since my compelling deconstruction of Road House.
That's true. I've been in a serious Transition Period, involving many, many boxes and logistics and dollars, among other things.
Most recently, I spent the last week or so being Jobless and Homeless, as the movers had taken my stuff into the big truck and carted it off. I like to refer to the last week as my regression period, which was spent couch surfing and having night after night of rich Goodbye Dinners, each of which included many glasses of alcoholic beverage and subsequent Sleeping It Off mornings.
I also had one night wherein Ellen came to visit me at Susan's house and we smoked weed and watched tv. And I realized -- I am That Guy -- That Guy who, jobless and homeless, couch surfs and gets high with his buddies in your living room while you're out leading a productive life.
Alas, that segment, the intersticial, responsibility-less segment, is over, and now I am sitting on the floor of my empty new apartment, hijacking some sucker's open wifi, sharing with you the small miracle of my Arrival in San Francisco, AKA The Beginning Of My New Life.
So, the cat? On the plane? She didn't like that. All I have to say is that the roaring of the plane's engine, while probably super stressful for the furball, definitely drowns out her plantive mewling. Which is less "mewling" and more "freaky angry yowling." Mewling just sounds way more charming that that loud, definitively non-human sound old girl makes.
Christine, AKA Fauxnica, brought her perky ass to the airport to pick me up in an electric car, which is incredibly apropos. I had much crap that needed to go, including a cat in a bag.
Then, when we got into the city? Goddamn if there wasn't a RAINBOW. In the sky. Which I captured poorly with my cell phone -- and have posted for posterity here.
Let's just do a quick compare and contrast --
Chicago? Bitch gives me three solid weeks of -19 windchill toe-and-ball freezing weather.
San Francisco? RAINBOW.
Fauxnica, ever the philosopher, had this to say:
Fauxnica: You know what they say about rainbows, don't you?
Me: Pot of gold?
Fauxinca: No, Rainbows are what happens when you mix sun and rain.
Thanks, captian science. Romantic, she is not. Fashionable? Fuck yeah.
So, then we get to the apartment and damn if AnneVan didn't leave me PLANTS in every room, and a liitle Care Package that included that essential home staple, toilet paper.
Damn, life is good.
Hey, guys? Guess what?
I LIVE IN SAN FRANCISCO!
Okay, gotta let the movers in. Let the unpacking begin.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
HP Movie Reviews: Classic Art Film
So, Tivo totally did me a solid this weekend by randomly deciding to capture one of the great films o all time.
Patrick Swayze is the "scrawny" bouncer with a heart of gold and a PhD in philosophy from NYU.
The Jeff Healy Band plays The Jeff Healy Band, starring Jeff Healy as that blind guy who sings "Angel Eyes"
And Sam Elliot is super hott. There's something about his grizzled virility that just makes me hopeful.
I'm not sure for what, but it's a sincere emotion.
There are tons of boobs, although not as many as in Showgirls.
There's tons of faux martial arts, including:
- Patrick Swayze doing a verison of tai chi in grey sweatpants, black wrestling Reeboks, and plenty of oil to showcase his hairless upper body
- Lots and lots of bar fights laced with errant high kicks
- During the climax, where Patrick S. fights with the hired thugs of the local redneck mafia, this guy in a chambray button down and a sharktooth necklace does a really complicated routine where he whirls around a cue stick as if he were trying out for color gaurd. (This same dude later delivers one of the best lines in the film. See, Patrick has recently taken a flying leap and tackled the guy while he was driving by on his dirt bike. They're in hand-to-hand combat. The dude has PS in a headlock, his mouth very close to PS's ear, and he says, "I used to FUCK guys like you in PRISON." That's so hott.)
I hadn't seen this film since it came out, when I was, like, 12, and SUPER shocked by a relatively bouncy, graphic scene in the beginning where this couple is copulating energentically in the backroom, standing up. The randy guy keeps slapping this woman's butt and saying, "Baby, I gotta make you a regular thing."
I was pretty sure, during that first screening, they were having anal sex.
I've since learned a lot more about sex, mostly, of course, from watching internet porn.
I now think that it was a more traditional scenario, but it begs the question:
Who let me see that movie when I was 12?
Damn you, Patrick Swayze, for being a preteen heartthrob.
Patrick Swayze is the "scrawny" bouncer with a heart of gold and a PhD in philosophy from NYU.
The Jeff Healy Band plays The Jeff Healy Band, starring Jeff Healy as that blind guy who sings "Angel Eyes"
And Sam Elliot is super hott. There's something about his grizzled virility that just makes me hopeful.
I'm not sure for what, but it's a sincere emotion.
There are tons of boobs, although not as many as in Showgirls.
There's tons of faux martial arts, including:
- Patrick Swayze doing a verison of tai chi in grey sweatpants, black wrestling Reeboks, and plenty of oil to showcase his hairless upper body
- Lots and lots of bar fights laced with errant high kicks
- During the climax, where Patrick S. fights with the hired thugs of the local redneck mafia, this guy in a chambray button down and a sharktooth necklace does a really complicated routine where he whirls around a cue stick as if he were trying out for color gaurd. (This same dude later delivers one of the best lines in the film. See, Patrick has recently taken a flying leap and tackled the guy while he was driving by on his dirt bike. They're in hand-to-hand combat. The dude has PS in a headlock, his mouth very close to PS's ear, and he says, "I used to FUCK guys like you in PRISON." That's so hott.)
I hadn't seen this film since it came out, when I was, like, 12, and SUPER shocked by a relatively bouncy, graphic scene in the beginning where this couple is copulating energentically in the backroom, standing up. The randy guy keeps slapping this woman's butt and saying, "Baby, I gotta make you a regular thing."
I was pretty sure, during that first screening, they were having anal sex.
I've since learned a lot more about sex, mostly, of course, from watching internet porn.
I now think that it was a more traditional scenario, but it begs the question:
Who let me see that movie when I was 12?
Damn you, Patrick Swayze, for being a preteen heartthrob.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Her name is Casey and she lives in New York
hipsterpit: last night I was talking to my mom about SF
hipsterpit: she was like
hipsterpit: how much will you be making
hipsterpit: I told her
hipsterpit: and she was like
hipsterpit: will that be enough to live there?
hipsterpit: I was like, mom, I'm not moving to dubai
NewYorkCasey: not yet
hipsterpit: so then I talked to her about, like, finding a mover
hipsterpit: and she said
hipsterpit: "So you get to take your stuff?"
hipsterpit: um
hipsterpit: yeah, mom
NewYorkCasey: alcatraz
hipsterpit: they're letting me bring my things with me
hipsterpit: across state lines
NewYorkCasey: even the cat???
hipsterpit: anything I can fit into the cardboard box I'll be living in, I suppose
hipsterpit: and I can have the cat on a string
hipsterpit: with a sign that says, Homeless cat
NewYorkCasey: will fight with cat for food
hipsterpit: there are lots of parks
hipsterpit: will fight with cat for cat food
NewYorkCasey: you'll find a place
NewYorkCasey: with space
NewYorkCasey: and cali sunchine
hipsterpit: I'm not sure what my mom was imaginign tho
NewYorkCasey: I cant believe you are going to live in Cali
hipsterpit: I know
hipsterpit: it's crazy, right?
NewYorkCasey: weird
hipsterpit: ARNOLD IS THE GOV
NewYorkCasey: you'll be all haight and ashbury
hipsterpit: no
hipsterpit: I'll be all
NewYorkCasey: flower child
hipsterpit: public transport
NewYorkCasey: peace love
NewYorkCasey: communal carpool
NewYorkCasey: people in Cali get up at like 4:30am
NewYorkCasey: and go to bed at 9pm
NewYorkCasey: and hike a lot
hipsterpit: yeah, and they're all vegitarians
NewYorkCasey: and eat avacados and grapefruit
hipsterpit: and they all smoke medical marijuana
NewYorkCasey: and get enemas
hipsterpit: and don't drink, except for at juice bars
NewYorkCasey: and have homeless cats
hipsterpit: and do yoga with their homeless cats
NewYorkCasey: and drink like Meg Ryan in When a Man Loves A Woman
hipsterpit: only vodka
NewYorkCasey: vertical vodka bottle
hipsterpit: cannot be detected on the breath
NewYorkCasey: on the street
hipsterpit: and throw eggs at cars
NewYorkCasey: that's hot
hipsterpit: I know
hipsterpit: scorching
NewYorkCasey: at least we'll always have IM
NewYorkCasey: even in SF
hipsterpit: forever and ever, IM.
hipsterpit: she was like
hipsterpit: how much will you be making
hipsterpit: I told her
hipsterpit: and she was like
hipsterpit: will that be enough to live there?
hipsterpit: I was like, mom, I'm not moving to dubai
NewYorkCasey: not yet
hipsterpit: so then I talked to her about, like, finding a mover
hipsterpit: and she said
hipsterpit: "So you get to take your stuff?"
hipsterpit: um
hipsterpit: yeah, mom
NewYorkCasey: alcatraz
hipsterpit: they're letting me bring my things with me
hipsterpit: across state lines
NewYorkCasey: even the cat???
hipsterpit: anything I can fit into the cardboard box I'll be living in, I suppose
hipsterpit: and I can have the cat on a string
hipsterpit: with a sign that says, Homeless cat
NewYorkCasey: will fight with cat for food
hipsterpit: there are lots of parks
hipsterpit: will fight with cat for cat food
NewYorkCasey: you'll find a place
NewYorkCasey: with space
NewYorkCasey: and cali sunchine
hipsterpit: I'm not sure what my mom was imaginign tho
NewYorkCasey: I cant believe you are going to live in Cali
hipsterpit: I know
hipsterpit: it's crazy, right?
NewYorkCasey: weird
hipsterpit: ARNOLD IS THE GOV
NewYorkCasey: you'll be all haight and ashbury
hipsterpit: no
hipsterpit: I'll be all
NewYorkCasey: flower child
hipsterpit: public transport
NewYorkCasey: peace love
NewYorkCasey: communal carpool
NewYorkCasey: people in Cali get up at like 4:30am
NewYorkCasey: and go to bed at 9pm
NewYorkCasey: and hike a lot
hipsterpit: yeah, and they're all vegitarians
NewYorkCasey: and eat avacados and grapefruit
hipsterpit: and they all smoke medical marijuana
NewYorkCasey: and get enemas
hipsterpit: and don't drink, except for at juice bars
NewYorkCasey: and have homeless cats
hipsterpit: and do yoga with their homeless cats
NewYorkCasey: and drink like Meg Ryan in When a Man Loves A Woman
hipsterpit: only vodka
NewYorkCasey: vertical vodka bottle
hipsterpit: cannot be detected on the breath
NewYorkCasey: on the street
hipsterpit: and throw eggs at cars
NewYorkCasey: that's hot
hipsterpit: I know
hipsterpit: scorching
NewYorkCasey: at least we'll always have IM
NewYorkCasey: even in SF
hipsterpit: forever and ever, IM.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?
Why, I've been in a coma, lying unidentified in a sweltering hospital in Brazil, under a sheet graying with age, with a wrist band that says "Juanita Doe."
When I woke, I had a brief period of temporary amnesia. Unsavory locals led me to believe that I was the daughter of a diplomat, held hostage in exchange for the institution of free tuition at clown colleges across the land.
I was forced to be videotaped blindfolded, yelling "VIVA LA BOZO!"
Eventually, the group realized the futility of this exercise -- as the diplomats cared not about me or red noses.
In the end, I was released into my own recognizance.
I wandered the countryside until, dazed and dehydrated, I stumbled upon a starbucks, ordered a double shot skim iced vanilla latte, and my true identity came back to me in one exhilarating, caffine-induced rush.
Just kidding.
I've been doing that stuff everyone does in December, gifting, and traveling, and hanging out toasting to the providence of the new year.
Also, wrestling with a decision that has now been, finally, made -- Guys, I'm totally moving to San Francisco.
I know! Can you believe it?
They totally have mountains there -- AND OCEANS!
It's kind of a long story -- basically, Fauxinica did a seductive snake dance and entranced me with her wiggling -- all "you should move heerrrreee. . ." and, "Come and woorrrrrk with meeee agaiiin," all the while while fluttering her fingers in a way that was decidedly NOT SPIRIT FINGERS, but kind of similar.
So I went out there, I interviewed with (literally) TWENTY SEVEN of her coworkers. Apparently, they all agreed I indeed spoke English and did not smell too bad, even though I had a cold at the time and was snotting into a tissue throughout the day.
After subsequent backs and forths and searching of my soul and discussions with people who have opionions like "DON'T LEAV ME!" or "YOU SHOULD GO!" and then saying, to hell with it, you only live once, and other such nonsense, I did it.
I accepted the job.
I'm moving.
I'm so scared, y'all, but so excited, too.
When I woke, I had a brief period of temporary amnesia. Unsavory locals led me to believe that I was the daughter of a diplomat, held hostage in exchange for the institution of free tuition at clown colleges across the land.
I was forced to be videotaped blindfolded, yelling "VIVA LA BOZO!"
Eventually, the group realized the futility of this exercise -- as the diplomats cared not about me or red noses.
In the end, I was released into my own recognizance.
I wandered the countryside until, dazed and dehydrated, I stumbled upon a starbucks, ordered a double shot skim iced vanilla latte, and my true identity came back to me in one exhilarating, caffine-induced rush.
Just kidding.
I've been doing that stuff everyone does in December, gifting, and traveling, and hanging out toasting to the providence of the new year.
Also, wrestling with a decision that has now been, finally, made -- Guys, I'm totally moving to San Francisco.
I know! Can you believe it?
They totally have mountains there -- AND OCEANS!
It's kind of a long story -- basically, Fauxinica did a seductive snake dance and entranced me with her wiggling -- all "you should move heerrrreee. . ." and, "Come and woorrrrrk with meeee agaiiin," all the while while fluttering her fingers in a way that was decidedly NOT SPIRIT FINGERS, but kind of similar.
So I went out there, I interviewed with (literally) TWENTY SEVEN of her coworkers. Apparently, they all agreed I indeed spoke English and did not smell too bad, even though I had a cold at the time and was snotting into a tissue throughout the day.
After subsequent backs and forths and searching of my soul and discussions with people who have opionions like "DON'T LEAV ME!" or "YOU SHOULD GO!" and then saying, to hell with it, you only live once, and other such nonsense, I did it.
I accepted the job.
I'm moving.
I'm so scared, y'all, but so excited, too.
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