i obsess.

1 + 1 + 1 = magic. blood-curdlingly divine magic.

E.T.A. Hoffman's The Sandman.

Nancy Oliver's Lars and the Real Girl.

Neil Gaiman's Coraline.

Discuss.

keeping the country's poor in debt: hilarious!

This video is like a massively wicked-good cocktail of funny and true.  You'll laugh, you'll -- cry.  (The crying will be from actually feeling horrible, but then the funny will provide some salve to ease the wound.  See?  Cocktail-y!)

Watch it and see if I'm not TOTALLY EFFING RIGHT.  (Plus, how can you go wrong with the name "internets celebrities?"  Yeah.  You CAN'T.)

been awhile.

I was lying next to J's bed as he fought against napping earlier this afternoon, and I was kinda drifting myself until, suddenly, I remembered something that electrified me and made me forget I was sleepy:

Rock and Roll Fashions.  Over where the Paramount Hotel is, now.  In fact, they razed that whole block to build the hotel.  Or something like that.  And there was this rad little Irish pub that was next to the R&R shop, and the Big Bang Warehouse (all vintage, no new shit) was just a few blocks down, on Taylor I think?, and The Big Bang store, that sold new things coquetted with the ancient and musty and strange and so so cool, was around the corner, on 9th.

And there was 2nd Ave. Records, once just a teeny closet, on the other side of the stretch of buildings on 2nd, before it became the behemoth that takes up most of the far side of the same building, now.  And London Underground, which survives because they probably made a fucking mint on alla those Docs they sold to little grungy kids, and punks, and the queer punk crowd, and the trendy wanna-be types, and they made a fucking mint.  Yes, they sure did.

This was all pretty close to that silly all-ages club, the X-Ray Cafe, and not far from there was the Satyricon.  Across the river, of course, was La Luna, but before it was La Luna it was the Pine St. Theatre.  An epic joint.

That was all a long time ago, is what I realized, upon hearing J's soft squeak of a snore.

(I fell asleep once on an old Denny's-style booth bench during a Bikini Kill show at the X-Ray; I'd just started a new job as a grocery clerk, and I was WIPED OUT.  Obviously.  The BK was not a quiet band.)

 

out of the mouths of babes.

Dear Jennifer Garner,

I want you to know that I've tried.  I really have.  I mean, granted, it's nobody's fault but mine that I developed an immediate, deep dislike for Ben Affleck when he played, okay, kinda excellently, his character in the Richard whatshisname movie, Dazed and Confused.  Linklater.  Yeah.  Anyway, I begrudgingly admitted on occasion that he was a fine, fine actor, but somehow, still, he rubbed me the wrong way, something I usually ascribed to his role choices -- I'm not SuperFan#1 of le blockbuster cinema -- but mostly, I think, because he really was so good at being the asshole in the R.L. movie back in the day.  It just formed him, for me, as this guy who was mean to little kids, who strutted around and patted himself on the back a lot for having such a chiseled chin and comic-book-hero hair. 

Not that I didn't want to forgive him when I found out he'd written the screenplay for Good Will Hunting, because my permanent-favorite musician wrote the whole soundtrack for it, one of my favorite all-time records, a record that breaks my heart into a thousand black, vinyl bits, because he's gone, now.   I'm Miss Misery herself over that.  And I forgave Ben further when Elliott stood on that bare, dim stage and played his music for the Oscars, a cavernous space evidenced by Celine Dion's gigantic, shimmering performance on the same set for the same award show.  Wow.  Contrast-y.  I mean, seriously.  If Ben had a nose for talent like that, and could write such a lovely story, I kinda *really* wanted to let my old feud with him go.  (Am I really saying this?  Did I ever spend more than approximately thirteen minutes put together thinking about blockbuster movie stars?  Well, no, because I was in my twenties and not a mom and had time to do things like travel and leave the house for days or even weeks at a time, but -- I digress.)

Then you came along.  And blew my mind as Syd.  I spent every Sunday for the entire run of the series gripping various objects in my living room, from the side of the couch to my husband's poor, abused hand, as you maimed and cavorted all over the known universe.  IT WAS BEAUTIFUL.  Don't take this the wrong-ish way, either.  I felt quite at ease with you as tv star, knowing full well that you were not the person you played on tv, and not my friend, and I didn't want any of that to change.  I like my superheroes in pretend-capes and shiny assisting pieces; Wonderwoman and Sydney Bristow are so much more interesting as pretend people, I think.  For instance, I never spent much time wondering what would happen if either of them were trying to, uh, deal with feminine issues when faced with a super-foe.  It kinda ruins the illusion, kwim?

So.  You're cool, you're the fabulous actor who plays Syd B to the hilt.  And Ben?  Whatevs.  Then.  You united.  And got preggers.  And I was preggers.  And I was all, oh, that's funny!  And didn't think much about it beyond that.  But I still enjoyed watching the last of Alias while dealing with a newborn, because it was such a good break from the reality of colic.  So that was good.  And I kinda knew from occasionally leaving my house to go to the grocery that you had a kid, too, and that was nice and I was happy for you, and I thought it was interesting that you and your husband were most likely enduring similar crises to the ones that my family was enduring.  And I enjoyed knowing that you are both normal humans.  Good for you.  Kids are hard.  They're insane-making.  It's beautiful.  Etc.  I even noticed, as I delved more and more into the political underworld, that Ben is fairly active as a Dem, and I applaud that.  He grew even more in my estimation once I discovered that fact (because, duh, anyone who agrees with me politically is *obviously* a winner.  D.U.H.).

So I'm flipping through my copy of a design magazine I picked up the other day, one you happened to be featured on the cover of, and -- did I mention that I don't see you as anything but a fellow parent-in-the-trenches, a person just trying to make it in this crazy, mixed-up world full of dangerous, poisonous toys and eco-disasters and rapidly-fleeting days?  That I have no illusions regarding your non-super-hero status?  I don't even think of you as an icon for women, something I'm sure you've been compared to, or given credence as, or however it oughtta be said, thanks to your role as booty-kicking Sydney Bristow, because I'm aware of your humanity, your potential for flaws, just as in all of us?  Just as with any celebrity or other highly-elevated public personage?  Yes.  We're all just trying to get through it. 

Anyway.  The design mag.  You're featured.  I flipped through to the story.  Looked at the nice photos.  Great clothes.  Pretty flowers in the yard.  It's nice.  And I read the piece.  It's nice, too.

Only there's this quote, right at the end?  Where you say something about how Ben gets to hang out and read all day and you're in charge of the kid, because that's just how it's supposed to be?  Because Dads don't have to do what Moms do?

(The actual quote, because I had to dig it up, is this:  "He sat all day and read while I watched Violet.  But that's the benefit of being the guy."  It's from the cover story in Vogue Living, Fall/Winter 2007.)

That's -- it's plain disappointing.  If you were my friend, I'd be disappointed.  That you're merely a parent trying to make it and do your best, a fellow mom-in-the-pit, yeah.  Yep.  Still disappointed.  I know people expect too much of you, of celebrities in general, for you all to carry our individual torches, to enthrall with your potential for super-hero-ness, to blow our minds in real life the way you do as characters on the big and small screens, but I don't.  I know, too, the obvious potential for misquotes, or interviews with quotes extracted that are bitten off inappropriately, things that the person being quoted never intended to say, did not, in fact, say, would never have said.   I realize mistakes can be made, and I also know about being a tired mom, and how often I've misspoken, how often I've wished desperately to be able to retract a statement made in a moment of exhaustion or just because I wasn't really thinking, and that's just at the park with other moms.  I'm not being quoted in a national magazine, read by potential millions. 

But I'm guessing you were given the opportunity to review the article prior to its being printed.  This is a classy design mag, not some weekly paparazzi mess full of the latest trashy photos.  They more than probably provided you an opportunity to nix any part of the piece that you objected to prior to its publication.

And I have to ask:  what.  the.  fuck?

Why would you want to make it appear that men don't need to participate equally in their families?  Why would you even think that?  I've scratched my head and wondered about it in a spare moment here and there since I read the piece.  I can't make it make sense.  He's a *Democrat*, for crying out loud!  He's not liable to smack you around for making it seem like he's slogging through the same exhausting routine that you are, side-by-side, after the article gets printed and is sitting on newsstands, in local grocery store racks.  (Unless he is, in which case, I think the Democratic Nat'l Party needs to pull his voting card.  *ahem*)

And, so.

I suppose I do hold you to a certain standard, after all.  I expect you to do the right thing.  Like anyone else.  Like all us chumps.

I don't think that's too much to ask.

Signed,

Kinda-your-super-sadly-now-former-fan,
lildb

we got yer sexual innuentendres right here.

Third movie date tonight since our son's birth, over two years ago.  We saw a movie! that! was! rather! fast! paced! and left me somewhat out of breath.  As we exited the theatre, Caleb said, "If you edited all of the speaking bits together, I wonder if you would even have twelve whole minutes of film."  I giggled.  Of course.  I was high on Hot Tamales and Sour Strawberry Belts (whatever the fuck those are, but they're good despite the not-knowing).

My favorite thing about the film was its gracious addition to my not-much-of-a-bevy of come-hither lines for my coulda-been-a-movie-star-himself hottie of a husband:  "Activate the Asset."

Heh.

(That "heh" thing has always immediately brought a lechy old dude to mind ever since I read my first "heh" in an email back in the dawn of the internet, in '99.  I know it's supposed to just be a general notice of finding something funny, in the tone of the LOLs and the ROFLs, but it seriously just makes me imagine some pervy, dusty old guy in his boxers.  Spittle flying from his cracked lips as he chortles over something twisted and weird.)

(I think we know who the actual weirdo is, here.  *ahem*)

p.s. Bourne Ultimatum, in case you were wondering.  And I thoroughly enjoyed it.  I thoroughly disliked watching that many awesome cars get beyond wrecked, but I dug the action.  It was fun.  :)  Yay!  Fun!  I needed me some fun.  I think you'll agree.  *nods head vigorously*

(*activate the asset*) 

(heh.)

terribly vexed.

Say, wherever the hell did that delicious morsel of man-candy, Joaquin Phoenix, go?  Why hasn't he been darkening my television screen of late (not that he ever leaves my dreams, because I'm the master of corn and cheese like that)?

Joaquin, oh would-be father of my children (if not for that husband-guy I sleep with, and, well, okay, also there's that little issue of my not being acquainted with him, even though I'm 110% sure he'd fall for me instantly if we were to meet in some light-filled flower garden somewhere in perfect-land, he would!, because I'm realistic like that), where art thou?

Anybody got the 411 on that fella?

Fill up my comments section with your words of amour for Leaf, aka J. Phoenix, and information as to his recent (film) whereabouts (I don't want to know where he's been physically residing lately, no; I simply don't have the moments to spare for real-time stalking.  I'm merely interested in zealously following his latest antics committed to celluloid.  I mean, have you SEEN Quills?  Because if you have, you understand.  Also, Gladiator.  Aka Film-wherein-Joaquin-burns-holes-in-the-screen, thanks-to-his-richtering-rating-on-the-hotometer.  Also, Walk the Line.  Etc.). 

I'll totally give you a fresh-baked cookie at blogher if you do.

xo

lily allen: robert palmer may have been forecasting.

I wouldn't normally cave to falling hard for pop music, just because everyone else likes it.  (That's a joke, btw.  I'm the biggest follower that ever followed, um, anybody.  Yes.)

But Lily Allen is irresistible.  For starters, she's - um, is she growing a fourth wave of ska with her sound?, I have to wonder, because it really reminds me strongly of Dance Hall Crashers, and we haven't heard music like that since third wave, which was, um, late-eighties/early nineties?  Okay, sure.

Also, she's decadent visually, thanks to the colorful style choices and, of course, she's devastatingly cute.  But the style - it's so - well, it's not unique, because she's rocking what's current, she's kind of a mod x middle eighties x chav, which is what I've noticed emerging in the last several seasons in fashion; however, the hipster spice is not quite what strikes me as important about her fashion gauge.  No, it's more that she's obviously striking the iron at kind of the perfect moment, and her music backs her up, and she's this total darling, and - it's very like the manner in which Madonna grabbed pop by the ovaries and shook it 'til it bled.  Lily, well, she's just adorably divine.

And the thing is, even while thinking analytically about just which fancy kinds of ingredients have gone into the delicious concoction that is her whole thing, it's simultaneously beckoning on a more irresistible, dancey-prancey level. 

I realize that she probably already blew up a while ago, maybe even as much as a year or two even, because she was on SNL as musical guest, what, two or three months back?  But I'm much more tortoise in my recognition of this sort of cultural tornado lately, and I still wanna throw my two pfennigs into the ring, old news notwithstanding.

Damn, she's cute.  (Although I stand by my claim that Jenny's cuter.  Proof's in the pudding, er, prom photo.)

(And maybe Dodo &/or GingaJoy could hook us up with a little background on the cultural significance of this word in GB?  Or is it a not-so-much kind of thing?  I'd love to know.)

*as dust flies from my grinding axe*

Dear Members of the Photojournalist Press:

I'll admit to finding it pretty funny when Britney Spears began having her first of many encounters with the un-pretty, non-packaged version of our world, with reality.  I giggled and performed acrobatics with my eyeballs when I heard about her show on UPN (or was it the WB?), the one where she not only shacked up with the guy from the armpit of the universe, i.e. Fresno, CA (and I oughtta know, having been forced to drive through its stinky streets as a kid on the way to Grandpa's house in a smaller town further along the 99), but then married him, resplendent in her pink velour Juicy couture butt-pronouncing garments.  He of the famed former relationship, the fella with a baby still on the way with his left-behind sweetheart of days gone.  Yeah.  I thought it would be delicious to watch someone smack their chin some and get a little rough around the edges, someone who until recently had always been presented to the public enhanced by make-up artistry and photoshop.  I reveled in it, and I'm not ashamed to confess that it's somewhat thanks to my having to share a birthday with what I've come to think of the glossy, candy-flavored 8x10 that is she that I have so enjoyed the initial stages of her unraveling.

But after she was photographed falling with her young son in her arms, and she looked very shaken and small, with mascara ground under her eyes, a newly semi-trademark look for Britney, I started feeling as though she'd had enough.  After all, that poor baby of hers -- it just wasn't fair.  I started wishing I could somehow telephathically convince her to make herself scarce, to start hiding out and to just get away from those damn cameras, somehow.

And that's when I started recognizing that, well, she can't.  She doesn't have a way to get out from behind your lenses. She's stuck.

Looks like I'm not the only who's done the math on that, either.  Her latest antics involving tattoos and head-shaving and rehab-hopping seem to point in a similar direction - that she feels jailed within a revolving room of glass and flashing light.  A prism of a prison, if you will.

And I sort of feel like, when I'm faced with the latest image of Britney etched on my computer screen or emblazoned on the latest trade slick, I want to pull you people aside and shake you a little by the collar and ask you to please.  back.  the.  fuck.  off. 

You're hurting this person now.  She's damaged.   She's scarred, probably irreparably, no thanks to having spent too much of her life housed within the glare of your equipment, and somewhat because of her own choices, but how could she have known what she was getting into when she was only a kid?  Only a little kid when she joined the fray of celebrity, the glittering warpath?

Please?  Turn off your cameras and your giant strobe-lights and pack it up?  Walk away?  Give her some room to breathe?  None of us viewing these images (okay, probably still some sick bastards, but not many others) are enjoying her twists on the rack.  It's grotesque.  You'll be the end of her. 

And she has kids who'd probably like a chance to meet their mommy.

Do it for the damn kids at least.

No regard whatsoever,

lildb

fridays are but a pale shadow of their former selves, lately.

I used to always schedule a night of karaoke or dancing on Fridays -- *kind of giggles at the use of the word "schedule" in the sentence*.  Sometimes both.  It was fun.  I say this because I am in a sort of reminiscent place tonight, after Wednesday evening's Decemberists extravaganza, which was simply transcendent.  I think I may have levitated, and, given the location, it wasn't necessarily a defiance of nature/gravity.

I don't want to to bore anyone with the trivial bla-dee-bloo of our evening, but I did have a lovely time, and my friends are funny and delightful people who should be given hugs and brought trays to their morning reclines bearing mouth-watering food that sends up curls of steam, resting near piping-hot coffee in delicate, intricately shaped antique cups, with a perfect flower resting atop the plate, of a morning, by their mates.  Real soon.  *wink, nudge*  They're that fabulous.  And because I believe I may save, if not lives, then at least some sanity by imparting this information, that polishing off tots, two orders of 'em, post-show, is a brilliant way to wrap up a transcendent evening.  Also, the tots, they are still heady and delicious in my memory.  Oh, for those tots.  I would give something hefty and important to get a basket of those suckers delivered to my tired hands right this minute.  Oooh.  Tots.  *drools*  (did I mention that the tots were deep-fried?  oh, those deep-fried tots that beckon to me with their starchy siren's song.  I hear you, o tots of glory and wonder and deep-friedification.  I hear.  I wouldst come if I but could.)

There are many songs I'd love to share that this band has crafted so perfectly, so wonderfully; but I'm only able to give you the ones that youtube had to offer.  I'm not willing to dig around to find a better source (although there is sure to be at least one), so here are a few of the pieces in their compendium.  They're so darned nice.  In their own ways.  I can't recommend this band enough, btw.  I've been listening to their Picaresque album in my car for the last few months -- rather than growing tired of it, I've only enjoyed it more as the song list cycles back to the first track.  It's developed into such a lush, intricate soundtrack for my grocery trips and bank errands.  A lush, intricate -- for my -- gah.  I need to go shoot myself in the head, now.

(The last video was apparently filmed the night I saw them, and I think I was standing fairly near the person filming.  Watch it and tell me you wouldn't be floating slightly above the floor -- no, not because the visual provided is so great -- but the sound:  So.  Damned.  Exquisite.)

"Tots Not Shots!!!"

bullets - now, eighteen percent more bullety!

• If there were a class given on how to become a real, live grown-up in a series of lessons, no matter the level of difficulty, I would sign myself up for it.  (Of course, I'd also be willing to sign up for stripperobics, so that really doesn't illustrate my point all that much.  And, may I add, sigh?)
• I need to have the information tattoo'd on the backs of my hands that I am not allowed to stay up past eleven p.m.  Or I need to hire someone who will follow me around and repeat the mantra about the bedtime hour thing into my ear to the point of Elmo-doll-annoyance levels.  (There is a good chance that, not unlike during my childhood, when I became accustomed to the nasty liquid my mom painted liberally onto the nails/cuticles/upper portions of my finger skin in order to prevent me from turning them into bloody stumps, I would cease being irritated by the mantra, and simply hum and/or chant along.  Um, and once again I have self-defeated.  This is not heading anywhere good.)
• Hangovers are difficult to manage when trying to keep up with toddlers.  Toddlers don't accept the statement that "mommy just needs to lie here on the sofa for a little while longer" as anything they need to be bothered with comprehending, and will continue to whine at an increased pitch, while simultaneously beating mommy at random, unpredictable physical angles and moments, with wildly uncomfortable objects, subsiding only long enough to allow mommy's slack form to collapse further into the cushion and begin to believe that the beating/whining has concluded, only to have the whole thing start over with renewed force and volume.
• Hangovers are particularly incompatible with that child mecca of shopping locales, Toys R Us.  The trembling hands, the crepey facial skin and bloodshot, burning eyes, and the hot flashes that announce themselves just after your child has unleashed a series of what appear to be rolling cannons, but in reality are merely a lot of brightly colored bouncy balls, do not allow for appropriate handling of the tantrums that are fucking inevitable while trapped inside its four Dante's-favorite-level-multiplied-by-primary-colored walls.  (Oh, good lord but it feels so right to drop the f-bomb within that statement.)
• When wiling away a few hours outside of the home you spend entirely too much of your time in lately, try to occupy those precious moments (TM) with something not so very television-marketer's-wet-dream-esque, such as repeating, verbatim, every second of the most recent episode of Lost to your friend, whose husband accidentally taped Dancing with the Stars instead, and really ought to be beaten severely for such a heinous error, but then forgiven mightily, b/c, after all, he bought tickets for a live!  theatrical!  production! as a wedding anniversary gift, which is why the VCR had been summoned into action in the first place, and my friend, of course, went with option B, because there might never be another such gift again if the beating were to take place.  (And also, because domestic violence is so gauche.)  Did I mention, the details of the show were repeated in such, um, detail, that it probably took just as long to spell it out as it would've taken to just watch the damn thing?  Might I add that the rendition my friend endured was probably, on a scale of "highly amusing re-telling" to "would rather watch a hole being dug to China," less entertaining than the digging scenario?  Because I say things like "um" and "like" and "she goes" and "he went" and "they were all" a lot.  A.  L.O.T.
• wahhhhh.

Furthermore, I was gonna blog last night, as in, I was planning a gigantic tour of all my beloved blog pals' super-suites, and I was gonna leave delicious, toothsome, chocolatey comments in my wake, and -- well, that didn't happen (obviously).  And tonight is allotted to saying more than "hello" to my husband; we may even have a conversation that clocks in at beyond the five-minute watermark (gasp!).  Plus I have to work, too.  We're trying desperately to get that damn website we've lately devoted the bulk of our time/attention/my right arm, hand, shoulder, and neck to (mousing is killing me, people) online within the next week.  That's right!  Pretty, funny, prunny delights for the chilluns!  For sale!  Materialism, I heed your call.  I am but your humble servant.  (What.  I miss brand-name shampoo.)

p.s. I totally came home after the wine/Lost fest 2006 and watched Project Runway, while stuffing my mouth full of cookies and delicious, frothy, cold milk to chase.  Did I catch that right?  Is Jeffrey out because he cheated?  And, my dislike of that Laura person knows no bounds.  She is akin to a cold, dead monster.  Only with less heart than a cold, dead monster would be possessed of.  She's the daughter who oughtta be guarding the gates of hell.  Maybe her sweet papa, Satan, gave her a short vacation so she could fulfill her dream to be a fancy-poo designah.  Barf.  I pity her offspring.  (And did anyone lay eyes on that yikes-y husband of hers?  Sheesharooni.)

p.p.s  I got even more photographic evidence handed to me last night of that trip to San Francisco, and I'm compiling, and collating, and I'm gonna have a really, really awesomely photographical post up about it.  Soon.  Stop pestering me already (she said to herself in a lecturing tone)!!

p.p.p.s. !!!!!! 

p.p.p.p.s .....

one of the people in my neighborhood.

There was a summer during my mid-twenties where I spent a few months couch-surfing at my friend's apartment, located along the boardwalk of one of the more popular beaches in southern California.  This particular apartment was situated on the ground floor of an old house that had been converted into a series of small, fairly economical flats (economical in comparison to some of the more expensive real estate in the area, that is, given that it was on the beach in southern California -- did I mention it was in southern Cali?  on the beach?  because it was).  It was adjacent to another building that housed a few very, very posh flats people rented for prolonged periods of time - although it was generally most popular in the summer months, I'm guessing.  There were three floors, and, therefore, three flats.  The middle flat was rented to a recently divorced man; the rest of the household included his two small daughters and their mid-twenties-aged nanny, a girl I shall call Alice, for non-truth's sake.  (Her name, of course, was something other than that.  But since I don't know her whereabouts currently, I don't want to out her in this silly tale without being able to ask her permission, and of course, there lies the dilemma, and, hence, the faux handle.)

Alice was well acquainted with my good friend, a girl I'll name Lucy Ann for the purposes of her presence in my story.  The day I first arrived, Alice stopped by and we had a long, leisurely bitch session about her employer, with whom she apparently was very smitten.  This smit had even brought about her present employment, it was so intense.  She had first fallen for him at a young, impressionable age, when she saw him on television (or maybe she'd heard him on the radio and *then* saw him on television.  or in a movie.  or both.  all three.  I don't.  really.  know.  okay??!?), and when she spied him in Chicago in a deli, and approached him for his autograph, they spoke for a long enough time to result in his engaging her as his children's nanny for the summer.  I suppose that means she has a very friendly, warm personality.  I mean, yes, of course it does.  I just don't really remember all that well.  (It was a long time ago, this story.  All of it.  And my memory is fuzzy, and drops out in parts.)

After Alice left, L.A. (Lucy Ann's nickname, which seemed quite apropos, given our location - southern California, for anyone who missed it) and I discussed Alice and her employer.  Mainly her employer, though.  Because I was mystified as to who he was.  L.A. tried to describe him, and his big, early eighties hit, but I couldn't even start to put a face to the description.  I was a little young to recall the song, and the subsequent musicals he'd starred in, etc.  (Too bad imdb.com didn't exist, at that point, or I'd have been able to place him immediately, *and* his white-boy gerry curls.)  Suffice it to say that I never displayed any fan-like attitude toward him, because I was pretty underwhelmed, not knowing who he was.  When I was in his vortex, my nonchalance left him obviously perplexed, and not a little disconcerted.

Lots of stuff happened during that several-week tenure on L.A.'s comfy divan, which is not to suggest that I spent the entire time on the couch, although I did lounge there for a lot longer than her roommate probably would've preferred (I have a feeling he would've preferred my ass to have not been there at all, in fact).  Some of the stuff included attending several soirees at the neighbor's, with really fancy booze in the liquor cabinet, and having long, excessively annoying conversations with him while sitting on the sand outside of the apartments, on the other sid eof the boardwalk, trying to journal and wishing he and his guitar and his drone about the good, old days would stop leaning over the balcony toward me and up and find something else to do.  Having a really worthless relationship with a surfer that resulted in getting a kind-of broken heart (and really, kind-of broken isn't even true; I think it was merely scratched, or even just a little bruised.  Bruises can hurt so much when first garnered, but after some time, they prove to be, not breaks, but simply roundish, purpled spots that fade quickly).  Wearing a jute-colored, macrame-like string bikini that reminded me of Farah Fawcett, and feeling like a supahstar (then seeing photos of myself in said bikini, and waking up to the knowledge that, indeed, I was many things in it, but not one of them included being a star, supah or otherwise).  Eating a lot of Big Ed's ice cream cookie sandwiches after smoking too much ganja in the early part of the day and having nothing other than wandering aimlessly to the corner market to discover fatty snacks on our daily agenda.  Well, nothing other than riding rusty beach bikes that had strips of navy and red paint dangling from the metal, to out-of-the-way, hole-in-the-wall restaurants that smelled of briny ocean and deep-fried food, for late lunches and even later suppers; and to the donut shop in the wee hours, one of us sitting on the handlebars while we careened crazily about, then tipping over in the sand, where we would open the greasy bag of pastries to eat right there with our coarsely covered fingers.  Bonfires in the dark, moist night air, sand squelched between icy toes, and early-morning wake-up calls from the surfer boys to hurry our asses up if we were gonna get the good swells.  Which we managed to do almost never, to the heightening irritation of our surfer boy buddies.  Smelling the air, salt-laden, pungent, upon waking each bright, golden-white day, and remembering where I was with a satisfied settling of my gut.

And now, so many years later, finally, I am able to recall the song my friend tried so unsuccessfully to jog my memory about, through the magic of youtube.  I am, at long last, aware of who I was living next door to, for a magically weird time.  Of all the wildly nostalgic crap that I flailed through in that sandy, scrubby, floundery summer at the beach, one of the memories that stands out is that, for a couple of months, I had  an eighties rock star for a neighbor.  Neighbor by proxy.

a weak-knee'd moment.

Mrs. Chicky nailed it.  Jim Halpert is probably one of the dreamiest guys I never had the chance to date.  If he existed, and in my social circle at that, I don't know that I could resist throwing myself at his head (going old school here).

                                                

I'm on pins and needles about tonight.  Will they?  Won't they?  Did Pam break off her engagement?  Is Roy still working at Dunder-Mifflin?  Is Jim going to leave if they don't work out?  Because I don't think I could watch any more if Jim left.  (And I realize that's part of the ploy of this plot thread; to allow the audience to wonder whether he'd leave, and to use that as a maneuver to sharpen the already ravenous loyalty to both Jim *and* the show - ain't no way Jim's going anywhere, with chemistry this incendiary.  It's too damn audience-keepin'.)

Oh, and if you haven't, you really ought to read Dwight's blog.  It brings me unspeakable joy.  Which is why I must now cease speaking.

Okay.  I'm back.  Silence is difficult for me, people.  Difficult.

It crushes my head like a little walnut.

Ouch.

drive-by entry. (you might want to duck.)

I was out of town until last night, and a myriad of business details, household and otherwise, require my attention at the moment, which means my blogging, erm, duties are being postponed (you like that?  I knew you would.  I did it for you, special-like), as a result.  Forgive me, o grand internets, for my heart belongs to thee, but you must abide by my haphazard schedule.

Coupla things, before I split and careen madly about, in the manner of the dog when she's chasing my son, toddling happily before her, brandishing the doggy crack, i.e. a small flashlight; first, I had a fabulous time this weekend with mah ladies, and I think they'll appreciate the all-out flourish of love that I shall now demonstrate through the subtle use of a specific term of endearment (did I lose you all, yet?):  my hos.  Because, yes, they are just that deserving and fabulous.  Second, I am floored -- my tongue's been disabled -- from having been passed the crown of CHBM as MotW.  I don't know who to thank or where to wave, so I'll just do it randomly and scare my son, the dog and the neighbors into thinking I really have gone off the deep end.  (I don't think anyone was doubting it previous to now, but this makes it so. very. official.  Also, so. very. sad.)

This is a crap post.  I can't let it continue. 

*kills post dead*

The End.

p.s. I promise to try hard to invent a much better-tasting post in the immediate-near future.  But I have pictures from this weekend to sate the two or three of you who accidentally started reading this boringness to the third power, and you've earned something.  If not cake, which I already et up because it was delicious and yummy, and because it was in the form of a twinkie, which I assume will live on in my stummick for many years (one would hope), then at least a photo.  Feel free to eat it if you forgot to have a meal or snack recently.  Mmmm.  Decadent photos.

p.p.s. I totally got permission from my friends to post photos, which I'm over the freaking moon about.  I have proof!  There are people in real life who like hanging out with me are willing to tolerate my presence for an extended period of time!  Lookit!

p.p.p.s.  I'm insecure.  Shut up.

 

from left to right: Raquel, Tessa, Jen (the lady of the hour, aka the bride-to-be), Emily, Debbie, and Pattie. 

I'll share our super-power alter-egos in an expanded, tell-all post later.  I mean it.  You're getting the director's cut of the insanity.  Be prepared to cover your eyes.  I'm serious as a heart attack, bitches.

*******************************

I would be seriously remiss if I didn't include a heartfelt thank-you to both Jenny and Cristina.  I think you guys are wonderful.  Thank you for thinking of me and liking my writing and being my friend and stuff.  And -- yeah.  Really.  Thank you.

no one can save me; the damage is done.

Guess what song I can't get out of my head since I sewed this design out earlier today.

(And I apologize thoroughly to all of the fellow non-fans of this, erm, song's creators.  Who will now be forced to live -- may it be brief -- in the hell I built when I came up with this idea, and then placed it here for all to be stung by.  I'll put some chips out and chill some beer, so it's not quite as godawful.)

p.s. This is not to say that I hated all hair bands.  Because I would've probably been willing to admit, out loud, to being the drooling, cross-eyed Def Leppard fan that I was.  In fact, I've lately considered re-purchasing Hysteria, because I need to hear Excitable once more.  (And anyone who insists that the album prior to that one is their most artistic effort, bla bla bla, don't bother - I could care less.  That wasn't the one that included the tasty-licious, worst/best pop-rock hit released on the airwaves during that era.  Of course, I speak of Pour Some Sugar on Me.  The lyrics - so dumb, so corny, so. effing. good.  Besides, I have already declared myself the antithesis of a music snob, if you recall.) 

I just want to try to recapture that feeling of being young and overzealous and chomping at the bit of life, again.  For a second or two.  Windows rolled down, volume up much too high, the tiny bit of sweat snaking down beneath the bridge of the Vuarnets, and on the nape of the neck, the neck that you've elongated in order to appear as tall as Stephanie Seymour (even if she is totally tacky, you prefer Linda Evangelista but the boys all like Stephanie because she goes out with Axl and she has big boobs), because your hair is so long and heavy and must, must, must be worn down, at all times, because boys will notice.  And it will be the best rush of your life, when they do.  And you will believe that life will get bigger!  and better!  and more important!  and fuller!  and everything will grow to mammoth proportions of excitement!  and adventure!  and experiences will keep blowing your mind!  and the music will always carry you to that same place of pure, unadulterated joy when you are driving with the heat and the wind whipping the hair in your eyes and your heart is racing as you look forward to your life.

Yeah.  I gotta get that album again.

And listen to it on my cd player.  Because I don't own an Ipod.  And I never will.  TM.

yes, I'd like some wine with my, erm, whine.

So good, we decided to ride the train a second time.

   

I'd never had -- okay, I'd never even heard of -- "white burgundy" before this bottle.  I'm gonna go out on a limb, here, and say that it is so good, I FINISHED the bottle.  (I know.  Can ya b'lieve it?!??)  White burgundy.  I don't know what the hell it means, but it's nice in the mouth and in the tummy.  Kinda like Ron Burgundy's song about scotch; "I love scotch. Scotchy, scotch, scotch. Here it goes down, down into my belly... ."  (And I swear to god, I didn't intentionally pun.  It just happens.  I'm the accidental punnist.  Somebody shoot me.)

p.s. French wine.  Pretty fance, right?  Yeah.  I also had some fronch dressing, fronch bread, and fronch fries with the vino.  (And to drink?  Peru.)

p.p.s. I want to add that I am drinking my first glass in honor of all of you who said the things you did in response to my last post.  It means more than you know.  Thank you.  So much.

you're only as good as your freshest post.

I give you - my ruddiest blush, my guiltiest pleasure.  This dates back, too, this particular g.p.  To around eighth grade, or freshman year of high school.  You know -- nineteenmumblemumblesomethin'.  Nahhh.  I kid.  You all know I haven't got age shame.  (Hair shame, yes.  But that is another post.  One I already wrote.  So.)  It was 1987, or something prehistoric like that.  (And in order to save your drunken asses from having to dredge up your calculators, or more horrific still, do the math, IN YOUR HEADS, that makes me thirty-three.  Yeah.  Bitches.  I said it.  But if you've got somethin' to say, just remember, my arms are like tough spaghetti after carrying around a small truck, I mean, a twenty-three pound kid, for many months.  And I can take you.  All of you.  At once.  If I wanted to, that is, which I don't.  I don't believe in violence.  Lucky for you.)

But allow me to set the stage.  What do we have, here?  Oh!  A piano.  With a book of music perched ever so elegantly on its rack.  (Heh.  I said rack.)  Hummm.  Chopin.  How very cosmopolitan.

 

But -- what's that, I see?  A slight hint of something hid so carefully behind the book of elegant nocturnes?  Something with a pale pink edge?  Whatever could it be?

Oh.  It's a copy of the music for the title piece written for the Anne of Green Gables made-for-tv-movie series. 

 

And they were beginning to believe she was so verrrry sophisticated.

Huh.

And I love.  LOVE. to play it.  I love it like I love cake.

Cake, people.  CAKE.

in-between days.

I am seriously considering disabling comments on my posts, because I feel weird about the whole dependency I'm developing on them for my continued posting abilities' sake.

Seriously.

(In a few months, when I've never mentioned it again, and it's never been followed through in any aspect of its disablingnessishness, we'll see just how serious I was.)

I love Sarah Silverman.  I have a HARD-ON for Sarah Silverman.  She's brilliance tossed with a fine melange of insane and batshit crazy, for a savory palate burst with notes of honey and vomit.  Really.  I want to squeeze her into an eau de parfum bottle -- the fance kind, with the old-fashioned, flowery, plasticky bulb -- and spritz her onto my wrists and neck, then lick it off.  She's unreal, she's so real.  Iffen you don't believe me, watch her latest ode on plastic round disc-thingy, Jesus is Magic.  If you have the nerve.  She ain't for the faint of heart, baby.  She's an equal-opportunity offender.  I am putty in her hands.

I am psyched about my friend, the divine Miss P-starr's, burgeoning craft fair this weekend (July 29th and 30th) in San Diego.  I wish I could go.  She's the real deal - gorgeous, brilliant, a genius with her hands, *and* she does crafty shit.  Heh.  That sounded dirty, so I went with it.  I'm five, remember?  So.  Yessss.  My friend and her crafty fare.  Fair.  To be specific; The Punk Rock Craft Fair.  It's in San Diego.  If you're within a few hundy miles of le Diego du San, I highly, HIGHLY recommend that you hit this.  It's going to be, how do the kids these days phrase it? -- off the chain.  Yes.  There's going to be cool stuff to see, hear, do, be, etc.  AND -- personally, I think this is the clincher -- it's free.  Basically, I'm jealous as fuck of anyone who has the opportunity to go, since I won't be able to.  Sigh.  So, go, and allow me to live vicariously by informing me of your experience post-haste.

May you all have highly productive, non-sucky days that begin with the letter M.

smooches, darlings.

no.

I just finished reading this post over at Julia's joint (and btw, Julia, I am humbled by your kind words about my former post), and you know what?  I'm just gonna put my money where my mouth is.  I've so had it with the giant creation of the need for cosmetic enhancement.  Created by conglomerate corporations with board members who pant after their ever-increasing stock options, who insist that the bottom line grow!  grow!  grow! as their insatiable thirst grows right along with it.  Who are convinced that it's acceptable to diminish human beings in their own minds, using ruthless marketing and advertising campaigns to charge against the defenseless spirits of the common people in the field of battle, the field that is littered with the land mines of airbrushed, glossy ads featuring anorexic, cigarette-and-champagne diet monsters,  monsters that the people being advanced upon simply cannot mirror, because they are not actual beings; charged upon with all the force of a tsunami, unprepared as they attempt to go about leading an ordinary, happy life, bowled over by their inability to meet the monsters in their indomitable, albeit imaginary, force.  Force that is given depth and breadth because the people believe it, and so it exists.

I won't let them bowl me over.  I like me.  I'm not a supermodel, but by definition, not even the women who represent that status can uphold the image without the vaseline lense positioned between the viewer and themselves.  I'm pretty.  I have pores that are getting bigger, and I have hair that is at times unruly, and at times curly and full of life.  I have stupid, too-thin eyebrows from the period in my twenties when I thought they were ugly and I tweezed them to ribbons.  My ass isn't much altered from pregnancy, but it was never "perfect," whatever that means.  It's a little saggy, and it doesn't sit really high -- it never has.  My legs, they are, to me, too muscular.  Too much like a soccer player's - a male soccer player's, that is.  My calves -- oh, how I've lamented them.  And yet, they take me where I need to go.  They are dependable.  And I can chase my son when I need; my calves are a swift and sturdy aid.  My stomach - once my favorite feature - really, my upper torso was quite nice.  Now, my shoulders cave from balancing my own shape to allow my son's body to cling and not allow gravity to interfere.  My breasts are like tube socks with points at their tips.  My spine slopes in a gentle curve from below my neck to just below my waist.  My stomach -- my belly button looks like it has descended into a permanent state of depression.  My washboard stomach.  Is.  No.  More.  I look gangly and awkward when I attempt to stand comfortably, and when I stretch my head up and raise my shoulders, I feel broken.  It's uncomfortable to stand that way; the way I was accustomed to, in my past life.  My unbaby life.

I don't care.  I see the lines growing on my face.  I watch the shiny, white hairs, soft from their lack of keratin, proceed into the river of brown on my scalp.  I watch as the river grows slightly grayer, as the weeks slip past.  I see the pimples that rise and fall, still, on my chin and nose, my forehead and neck.  I watch the veins on the backs of my hands begin to protrude ever more prominently, the skin on my legs become less satin and more paper-like. 

I am pretty.

I am not perfect.

I am not a magazine ad. 

I am a woman.  I am a mother.  I am a full, complex, multi-faceted person. 

I deserve to believe that I am worthy of what I have worked to better about myself; not on the exterior, because that is a facade that will crumble no matter what improvements I make; but on the interior, where I grow ever stronger and brighter and wiser and more humble and more able to love.

I want to be remembered for who I gave love to, who I gave friendship to, and who felt strength because of that love and friendship; not for how stylish or hottt I was.

I am pretty.

music does not define me.

Nor does film, nor literature.  I'm a rebel against my own tastes like that. 

With that said, here are some of my favorite records, on vinyl.  (Okay, so I have a camera and some records.  And a finger.  Yeah.  I said it.)

These are sort of my pride 'n joy du jour.  Only the du jour has been more like, "du annum (I don't possess a font of french in my vocabulary, so, yeah)."  I haven't had ample opportunity to change the records out of their frames, like I did back in the day.  I used to do it every month or so, as sort of rotating art pieces.  I have had a thing for collecting funny, old records at thrift shops for a lotta years, and while some of them are weird and kitschy, some happen to represent music genres that I felt really revealed me.  I have since left that whole music snobbism behind, because it's something I realize I don't have time for anymore childish.  (If I can't do it, then I'm just going to be a haughty bitch toward those who still can.  Bastards.  Free, non-parent, freedom-mcfreepants bastards.)

Maybe I have unconsciously allowed this pairing to remain static, because it satisfies my rock-geek-beatin'-ventricles (just keep telling yourself that). There's a song (Glazed, the last track on the second side) on the RftC album that was clearly inspired by a Beatles song (specifically, the end of I am the Walrus, where they chant, "everybody smoke pot"; Rocket mimics the chant at the end of Glazed).  I get used to get all excited and wet my pants over that kind of dorky rock-geek stuff.  (To be fair, this specific Beatles album doesn't feature the Walrus song, but I don't have that record on vinyl, sadly, so I put this one up to represent.)  There's another grouping I would feature using this Beatles album, but I don't have a third record frame, nor do I own the particular Kinks or Sleater-Kinney records on vinyl in order to frame them to begin with (I have the last two on disc; they don't frame so well, those little jewel cases.)  I must explain, btw, that the Kinks and S-K albums feature photo formats that are similar to the Beatles album shown here, hence the cohesion in the desired grouping.  (Did I mention, Geek?)

   

The Ben Webster double lp is one of my hands-down favorites; it's just so DAMN fine.  Oh, how my ears yearn to hear its loveliness.  But my record needle's broken.  Again.  Sigh.  I guess that could explain my posting these beauties; if I can't listen, I can look.

I have oodles more to share, but my camera battery died as I was hooking it up to its beloved big-sister laptop, and I'm having a bitch of a time with my internet connex (the last 36 hours have been cruel, so cruel).  I'll update this post with mais e mais quando eu tenho a primera oportunidade (I read somewhere that your sexxxy quotient increases upon others' discovery that you speak a second language - is it working?  I'm willing to pull out all the stops.  Whatever it takes.  Just like me!  Find me attractive!  Without having to show you my vagina! -- Although that would probably just make you all run away, as you bleed from the eyes.  I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have said that.  Somebody should permanently disable my internet capabilities.  Please, husband, don't be reading this and think I'm serious - I'm going through withdrawals and my mouth is all loosey-goosey as a result.  Okay -- really, people, look away.  This isn't pretty.  It's getting uglier by the minute.  I have a problem).

***********

here's that update I promised -- and I hope I'm quelling the ravenous, drooling idiocy I've induced with my partially completed post, herewith.  Since all six of you like me and my vinyl that much.

Yeah.

(I have a self-confidence problem.)

(Also, I suddenly think I need ice cream therapy.  Stat.)

I have included these in no particular order, because I didn't want to demonstrate any favoritism toward the more iconic, "hip" element.  I like it all.  I don't have music cred.  I'm no snob.  I'm a mommy blogger, for cripessake.

Yeah.  I'm a nerd.  (Mel did mention to me on the phone the other day, though, that being a nerd is all the rage, lately.  Looks like I just can't get away from the cool-o-meter.  Shit.)

shoes: an ode to heaven on earth.

After reading Andrea's lovely tribute to footwear yesterday, I was inspired.  Because the shoes, they do that.  They make me feel light and frothy and effervescent, like human alka-seltzer.  I love them with a chronic intensity.  (Does that even make sense?  Chronic intensity?  Ehhh.)  Anyway, I'm gonna post some pictures of the members of my shoe family, despite their styles belonging to seasons far, far removed from the current one, with a single exception.  Because I still care deeply for these ped-apparel children, partially as a result of having had far too few opportunities to bring them out of the dim repository on the shelf that they call home.  They're even a little *sniff* dusty.  Sigh.  Once upon a time, there wouldn't have been time for my shoes to collect dust.  Dust!  Perish the thought!  Nay, my shoes collected memories of festive occasions, and miles spent schlepping their intrepid owner through rainy streets, through classroom, theatre, office, pub, park, car, house, field and over dale.  Even mountain and stream had steamy encounters with my footwear.

Alas.  That time is currently on pause for the lovelies.  (For the record, my collection used to be insanely large, fleshed out by my many vintage and thrift worn beauties.  I got a wee bit more pragmatic during pregnancy about storage needs, etc.  It still chokes me up to think of them.  Sigh.)

*photo taken down because some freakshows keep drooling over my footwear, and may I add, YIKES*

(My son enjoys a rousing, daily bout of "create chaos where there was once a remnant of organization representing the larger established order of the household prior to my existence" in the mornings, hence the lack of cohesive form on the lower shoe shelf.  Sigh, again.)

Another shot of my shoes, including the lower shelf of the husband's best footwear, shoes I drool on when he wears them, poor dears.  They see so little of the world, it just isn't fair that my saliva has to be something they experience, ever.  But there it is.

*photo taken down because some freakshows keep drooling over my footwear, and may I add, YIKES*

And, since I can, because this is MY blog (beats chest forcefully), I'll tell you that the fourth pair on the right (upper shelf) -- the black satin sling-backs, that is -- are my wedding shoes.  Yep.  I wore dyed shoes.  They were originally dyed a sort of olive-champagne, to match the sash on my dress, and when I came back from my honeymoon to discover that the bouquet that I'd left on a shelf above the shoes (in a different closet) had rained pollen from its dying stamen onto the toes of those lovely, lovely shoes, I a) had a mild attack of apoplexy, and, after the appropriate period of mourning, b) took them straight to my favorite shoe repairman in town (best in Portland, hands down, and I oughtta know 'cause I've lived here since birth, mostly), and had them dyed a smart black.  (I also had to allow them to change the tap on the heel to black.  Oh, but I was sad to lose that sumptuous, gorrrrgeous color.  Ehhh.  *shrug*)  p.s. Those are my biggest splurge, in footwear, to date; they're Cynthia Rowleys.  The other pairs are Paolos, Franco Sartos (the discount Via Spiga), and XOXO.  Nothing to crow about, really.  But my Cynthia Rowleys, while already a bit dated, are still so beautiful to me.  Even in that staid black.

I shall now post a picture of my disorganized closet, because I snapped a shot of it whilest angling for the best view of the shoes, and because I like pictures on my blog.  It makes me feel cheery.

*photo taken down because some freakshows keep drooling over my footwear, and may I add, YIKES*  

This is all I've got, today, folks.  I burned the midnight oil yesterday evening doing some work, and I's tired.  But I would like to request that anyone who has some delectable shoes wasting away, lonely and depressed, in their closets, to post some snaps.  Give those shoes a wee taste of the limelight.  They'll thank you for it.