Takin’ it off; or how I abandoned feminist sentiment…

and got my first Brazilian wax. I’d been curious about it for a while. I’d heard things. Things of a sexual nature. I was intrigued. Yet I felt conflicted. In the back of my mind was a scene from Female Perversions (a must-see for Tilda Swinton fans). A character talks about pubic hair as a sign of feminine power. It affected me deeply. But I was already toeing the line since I believed in modification.

I was a shaver, you see. I experimented with various configurations and boundaries, and had come up with my particular style; functional but, according to my old roommate, comical. I’d never experienced wax below my neck (except for a few “candle” incidents), and I was ready to go for the gusto. Besides, I’ll try anything three times.

My aesthetician, Meredith, on the other hand had a plan. “Let’s just do bikini, and if you can’t take it…” Sounded good. I was lying on the exact same type of paper as the doctor’s office, I thought to myself.

She started, and I was hanging tough; pain similar to eyebrows, actually. She kept up a good patter, and I started to concentrate on the conversation. All too quickly, she was prepared to move on. As Meredith bent one of my legs, foot to opposite knee (tree pose for you yoga enthusiasts) she posits “Are you ready for me to pour piping hot wax on your vagina?”

There are a few questions that you think you’ll never hear, but the trick of them is you don’t realize you’re hearing one of them until you’re, well, hearing one of them. Apparently that’s one of them.

I’ll try anything three times, I reminded myself. I’m a soldier! I started this process, and by all that’s good in the world, I’m going to finish it!

“Yup” I said weakly.

Holy shit. She was not kidding. She had told me the wax would be “incredibly hot”, but would not actually be burning the skin. And it was. It also was not the wax-and-strip kind used for the bikini. This motherfucka had to cool, and be ripped off in three quick jerking motions. Sweet Lord.

By the time she was finished, there was sweat on my upper lip and I desperately wanted a cigarette. It reminded me of when I had to have my nose ring put back in by some meth heads on Sunset. Or getting my nose pierced initially. Adrenaline rush. All that and weeks without shaving? Sure there were some compromising positions, but I was hooked.

Today I upped the ante. I had my armpits done. “Hurts worse than bikini” Meredith said, cooling the wax on the spatula.

And it does. But I’ll try anything three times.

Going Back(wards)

Have you been feeling sluggish? Out of sorts? Are things just not getting done? You may be strongly affected by Mercury in retrograde.

Apparently it started on the 20^th, but last week was a surprisingly good one for me – closure, dvds from amazon, our agent was overcome with “love” (4x in one email) for our script, a response from Carl’s Jr apologizing for “offending” me with their commercial (in was “not their intent”, by the way), and a mystery email.

But around me, people were falling apart. Computer and car trouble, persistant colds, wacky apartment hunts, inexplicable rashes - the whole lot. Someone mentioned the Mercury situation, and it peaked my interest. I originally came up with a theory that Water signs were vulnerable. Then I spoke to a Capricorn who prizes organization, and she was a wreck. Some of these people knew of the retrograde, but not all.

It's hardly scientific, but it's something to think about. And possibly blame.

Anonymous Comments...

It came to my attention that anonymous comments were dis-allowed - rookie mistake.

Anyway, feel free to post comments anonymously without signing up for an account - although, like me, you may sign up just to comment and then find yourself posting.

Registering, the gateway drug.

Das Letzte Einhorn

That’s right, I finally obtained my very own copy of The Last Unicorn soundtrack. Only released in Europe. Used on Amazon. In perfect condition. In like, 3 days. Brilliant!

Fact – if you are on Jeopardy, and the category has anything to do with folk music or the 70s, America will be one of the “questions”. I personally have witnessed three separate instances – “Ventura Highway” “Sister Golden Hair” and “Horse with no Name”. You can’t turn around without running into America.

So after the whole Bee Gees as the Beatles fiasco, for a band to attach themselves musically to a film must’ve been a pretty big thing. They had a reputation to uphold – their sensitive rockin’ was practically patented. They choose a children’s book.

But they had a Grammy award-winning composer on board. And the adapted book was a children’s classic. The music and lyrics were on point. All that was left was the look of it, they had the sound. They needed an animator.

I get the feeling that animation houses were like directors of the genre – scripts could be brought in and completely styled and conceptualized by the animators. It wasn’t the “this is what Homer looks like, make him do this” animation of our day. The character design was done in-house. And the company that animated the movie had close ties to The Hobbit and Return of the King animated films of the time.

The style was both extravagant and realistic; the characters (with the exception of Amalthea) were cragged and angular, like harsh human faces can be. To the untrained eye, I think the film appears “ugly”. It’s like Willem Dafoe or Lance Henriksen – fascinating yet hard to look at.

Amalthea, the humanized unicorn, on the other hand, is a babe. Sailor Moon can eat her dust (gently shaken from her dainty hoof). And I love Sailor Moon, so that’s saying a lot. Amalthea has limpid violet eyes, and a silvery-purple aura. Sigh. My first girl crush.

Anyway, I think the look of it has something to do with the blank stares I get when I mention The Last Unicorn. That, or the disturbing and frightening scenes with Momma Fortuna (Angela Lansbury). In either case, I can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t love this movie, in it’s entirety. Especially the soundtrack.

Long story short, I'm cruising through LA bellowing "I'm alive" at the top of my lungs.

Email Rules.

So I open my email and there’s a message there from a webmaster I wrote to months ago. His one-line response to my paragraph (detailing why one particular post was a complete revelation) was both biting and funny.

The whole experience made my day, and it got me thinking about how great it is to get email. It’s a little validation; a little pat on the back. Someone out there is thinking about you. Very Linda Ronstadt/Jeffrey Ingram. It’s nice.

When you get it from someone unexpectedly it’s even more of a thrill. “What could this be?” you wonder. “Why I haven’t heard from fucking ______ in simply ages!” you exclaim in a Dorothy Parker-like drawl. You read on, a quiver of anticipation.

Anyway, people used to have to go through a lot more to let someone know they were thinking about them. A musical tribute at the annual tribal gathering. A letter sent months, possibly years prior. A telegraph waiting at the station. Now you can sit down for 5 minutes, and press send.

Really easy.

We should all do it more often.

A Political Announcement

About a week ago, I told my friend she could be the first female President of the United States. I don’t think she fully processed it – we were via cell and she was in a loud bar. But I meant it – I could believe it. But last night sealed the deal -

My roommate’s dog was stolen yesterday, and my President Friend saw a homeless person walking the dog on Sunset. At midnight. She pulled the car over, in front of a strip club, and took back the dog.

One woman.
Alone in the night.
Seeing a wrong and righting it.

I don’t know about you, but I have chills.

Representative Democracy Now!!

Imagine if you would, that Elijah Wood and Napoleon Dynamite form a band. But that’s just the appearance – we’re in this for the music. So you close your eyes, and Kings of Convenience are a warm cup of herbal tea on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

I like to gauge a show’s “goodness” by a grouping of factors:

1. My own enjoyment – which increased exponentially with each of the duo’s song interstitials. These guys aren’t just musicians, they’re performers. Good show.

2. How much the rest of the audience is enjoying the show. Good show.

3. How many times I am forced to hear a tone deaf person hum/whistle in my ear…er,…ahem.

Okay, I just made that last one up for this show - which was, as you can imagine, good.

Take 5...in fact, take 2.

Simply the most delicious confection to come from the Hershey’s kitchen in years. I suspect it’s British in origin. Have you had European candy? It’s out of control. It’s like a candy isn’t worth making if it only has one additional ingredient. And Take 5 takes the challenge, and sends the competition home humiliated. It has everything. Peanuts, Caramel, peanut butter, pretzels, milk chocolate. Fan-fuckin’-tastic.

I know what you’re thinking – pretzels? Yes, pretzels – salty, crunchy pretzels. Layered with peanut butter, caramel and sprinkled with peanuts, then enrobed in chocolate.

I’m looking at a commercial for Take 5 right now. One of the 7-11s in the neighborhood has a Take 5 brownie. The Take 5 is coming. Embrace it.

First off -

Let's get it over with - Yes, I'm lame. Yes, I'm home on a Saturday night. Yes, these are the panties my mother laid out for me. Okay, I'm at home - but it gave me a chance to discover a peculiar phenomenon.

(Which brings me to second off)

There were at least eight anti-marjiuana commercials during MadTV. Eight. There was the "tell your little brother you forgot him" one, the freestyle rapping one to a fallen hero, and one other one which...let's be honest, I don't remember. They ran all three of those in different combo blocks - that's right, BLOCKS. They were the bread in a commercial sandwich. But I'm sure of the number, because when I noticed the second one, I started counting.

Then I switched to Saturday Night Live:

Beer? Yup.
Video games? Check.
A Different Beer? Righto.
Car? Si.

You get the idea. Not a single anti-pot commercial. Not a single one.

Anyway, I just thought that was interesting. I can't be the only one.

Cuts Heal Faster With...

It felt strange. It felt like the clouds opened above me. I was suddenly in the middle of a Thomas Kinkade, painter of light, landscape. All the emotions that had been swirled up inside me floated away, riding that beam of light straight out to ether (where in an efficient manner it is cleansed and released back as energy, neutral and powerful). It was...enlightening.

At the same time, I now felt in the place it had taken up inside me. "It was a good thing we caught it when we did, Doctor!" . It was raw, but I could feel it healing.

And the best part was that it actually got better everytime I told the story. It was like describing it was Neosporin for the Soul. By the time I got to the last retelling (it took five) I had successfully passed through a few stages. Barely a dull ache, and the skin was partially sealed along the edges – if I was careful with it for a while, in time it would be good as new! Better even!

That’s right, disbelievers! I got "closure". It does exist. And it feels kinda good!

["Neosporin for the Soul" is held in it's entireity by bnotb as the possible title for the forthcoming self help book]

Oh, Canada

My home and native land…okay, that’s all I know. But I do know this, them Canucks are funny. Oh yeah, you know about Jim Carrey and Mike Myers, but did you know about Julian and Ricky?

They're the Trailer Park Boys, and since netflix hasn’t added it yet, if you don’t have BBC America, you will have to resort to purchasing the past seasons on Amazon. I hesitate to claim it will be worth it, but if what I’ve seen is any indication, you may find it more than commensurate to the expediture (see if there’s any “new and used”, I don’t want to get blamed!).

Every season begins with them swearing they’ll never go back to the joint. Every season ends with our two protagonists back in jail. But such is the cycle of trailer parks, be they in Aberdeen, Tallahassee, or Nova Scotia. And the “reality show” backlash is hot – look how CBS scrapped their “Beverly Hillbillies” show.

This show is funny if you’ve ever lived in a small town filled with people with big ideals (Issaquah, anyone?). But it’s also just hilarious for the delivery; Julian tells Ricky he can sleep in his car for 3 days – Ricky says “Thanks man, it will only be like 3 weeks…” Maybe you have to see it, but a man eating cold hotdogs and swigging vodka from the bottle make that line genius!

To The Driver Beeside Me At The Stoplight

Once, when I was a kid, we were out in the forest/green belt between Lake Sammamish and I90. We were tromping, single file, through the woods on a sort of adventure walk (re: insufficient supervision), and came across a fallen tree. I’m not sure who actually disturbed the hive; there were six of us, and I was about four deep in the line.

Suddenly, a lot of screaming and crying. And the running, lord how we ran. Unfortunately, since we were currently in the deep ravine of a clay riverbed, the running didn’t do us a whole hell of a lot of good. The bees swarmed, covering each of us on different exposed body parts. The kid in the front (which became the back) got it the worst, on his face and neck.

The next thing I remember about that day was having my hands tended to from about 8 bee stings. We effectively decimated our afterschool’s supply of baking soda and, I’m guessing, meat tenderizer. But strangely, I don’t remember the pain.

A few months ago I got stung by a bee again. And you know what I’d forgotten? It fuckin’ hurts! And it doesn’t just hurt when it happens, it hurts for a couple days. Arnica gel can only do so much. I won’t soon forget that pain.

So when you see me scrambling madly to roll up my passenger side window because I saw that bee drift lazily across the hood of your car, headed right for me, go ahead and laugh, white Corolla – but do not ask for whom the bee buzzes; it buzzes for thee.

Silent Running from Carl's Jr.

That Mike & The Mechanics song periodically pops into my head when my cell phone loses reception. “Can you hear me? Can you hear me running?” I croon into my v600.

C@ and I were discussing this phenomenon the other day, and when we started singing the actual lyrics to the rest of the song, we realized how bizarre it is:

“Take the children and yourself, and hide out in the cellar”?

“There’s a gun and ammunition just inside the doorway – use it only in emergency”?

“Pledge allegiance to the flag, whatever flag they offer”?

Was this a Cold War anthem? Was I too young to fully grasp the pro-militia slant? I became disturbed. I became more disturbed when I realized I love that song! Not even in the past tense. It rocks!

After I recovered from that revelation, I turned on the TV. The ad for Carl’s Jr.’s spicy bbq burger was on. It features an ill-mannered baby in utero, speaking via sonogram. Disturbing enough, right? Wrong. At the end of the commercial, the baby issues a threat – stop eating spicy food, or I’m going to come out early, grab something from here and bring it with me. To illustrate his point, he tugs at the uterine lining.

WTF? Is he threatening to give his mother a hysterectomy? Over a burger? That’s just creepsville, man.

The time my grandfather died - Part II; The Funeral

Because death doesn't really take a holiday...

Saturday morning, people converged on the house to follow the limo to the service. I brought out pound and coffee cake. My dad had a rum and Pepsi. Two of my dad’s ex-wives shook their heads at him. He and I shared a second drink as we were leaving.

About seven cars followed us through the streets of downtown Newark to the funeral parlor. I sat up front with the driver, who asked me to hold the paddle that said “Funeral” out the window as we cruised through the intersections. I started to cry a little bit.

I was supposed to read the obituary, and a few of the acknowledgments. The night before, my sister and her mother had gone through all the cards we had received and picked out the most prominent well-wishers to have their notes read during the service. In the front seat of the limousine, I read the program for a man I loved very much, but didn’t know very well.

He had been married to my grandmother for 63 years. He died when he was 84. He had spent roughly three times as much of his life with her than he had apart from her.

She cried at the service, which ended up being another exercise in morbidity. The casket was thankfully closed, but at the end they opened it up for one last goodbye. The mannish woman who ran the funeral parlor attached a handle to the head of the casket and cranked grandpa up like he was part of a magic act in Las Vegas.

In moments like that, you are holding your breath for the hijink. You’re waiting for the lever to slip and the body to bolt upright, or the table to collapse, or even for the mannish woman to trip and fall in a compromising position. I was almost wishing for it. But nothing like that really happens at funerals. They are chillingly ordinary, and overwhelmingly sad.

I made it through my speaking part pretty well, although to me my voice sounded young and far away. People congratulated me later. I didn’t know what to say, so I would just nod thanks. And at his last goodbye, I kissed his bald head and remembered what it was like to kiss that head when it was warm, and the skin was supple with Vaseline and perspiration. I loved kissing my grandpa’s head.

They lowered him back into the casket, and we filed out of the parlor to the cars. We drove by the house on the way to the cemetery, and the number of cars behind us was considerably larger. My grandfather had meant a lot to a lot of people. My dad got out to place a flower on the door of the house, under duress. “Why me?” he asked the funeral director. In protest, he picked up the mail while he was there and sifted through it on the way to the graveyard.

My aunt had held herself together well at the service, only waving childishly as they had lowered her father back into the casket. Now, as we lowered him into the ground, she put her hands on the casket lid and pleaded “Come out daddy, please. Please come out daddy.”

When the minister got to the “ashes to ashes” part, his assistant produced a vial of gold glitter which she sprinkled over the casket. That struck me as a little theatrical, and the type of thing my grandpa and I would have laughed about if we had seen it. We would have laughed about a lot of things.

People came over again, but this time they were impatient and hungry in their grief. I found myself acting as hostess to a gigantic buffet, reheating food people had brought, getting the older guests food and drink, stocking the coolers. My grandmother retired to her room, my aunt was incapable of processing so many tasks, my father had churlishly yet rightfully decided that people could fend for themsleves, and my sister had gone AWOL - ostensibly to get “more fried chicken”, but by the time she arrived two hours later, all I wanted to do was go up to my grandfather’s room and take a nap.

I don’t think I ate anything for two days. But in the spirit of the mourners, I tried my best to get drunk. I drank all day, and into the night, but I still remained painfully sober.

The time my grandfather died - Part I

Because springtime reminds me of death, we take a journey back in time...

When my grandfather died I looked for him in his dresser drawers.

We went to the viewing and my aunt fell down sobbing in the aisle.

We all wanted to be alone, ashamed of her grief.

I had never touched a corpse. My aunt went up to the casket and draped herself over it. “My Daddy” she wept.

The viewing is a morbid curiosity. Here’s the shell of the man you loved. Doesn’t it look great? Doesn’t it seem so life-like? Like it will open it’s eyes, or maybe smile? Like he shouldn’t be dead?

But he was. After my aunt’s outburst, I went and touched his hand. It was cold and stiff like a plastic model.

At the house, we had food and drink. At one point my grandmother broke down in the kitchen and just started sobbing. She has Alzheimer’s. Every time she remembered he was gone, it was the first time.

I went into the backyard and smoked a joint I had smuggled cross-country. Everyone was laughing and drinking. People commented on how great he’d looked. They must not have touched him.

After most of the guests left, my grandmother and I cleaned up. She washed the dishes. I dried. I put away the deserts and snacks. My sister and my aunt tried to stop us, tried to make me make my grandmother stop and eat something. But I wouldn’t, and she couldn’t.

That was the closest we had ever been. In our rebellion. Because I am a firm believer that someone who has lived as long as she has should be able to eat ice cream and candy all day if they wanted. And they didn’t understand that she just couldn’t leave a sink full of dishes.

I dried.

My grand father was gone. Sometimes, when people die, you feel somewhat selfishly, that part of them is still around. I looked all over that house. I went to the third floor and the basement. There was only emptiness. Not the vacuum of a sudden death, like a trauma or something that leaves unfinished business. I felt like he had left before he died. He had been moving away the whole time and he never told us. It was painful to think he dismissed us so easily. I was angry at him and angry at myself for not saying goodbye.

He had gone into the hospital a month before. They said he was dehydrated. They gave him liquids and sent him home a week later. No reason for concern. A few weeks after that, he was back in the hospital. This time they better run some tests. I spoke to him on the phone. He didn’t sound like himself. He didn’t sound like grandpa. My sister called and said I should come, but my dad said she was an alarmist- which is true; and that I shouldn’t worry. Then they said grandpa had advanced bone cancer, and they gave him three months. A week later he died. They said he had probably been in pain for a while, but he never complained. He always kept everyone together. I felt like the diagnosis was his release. Like he now had an excuse - he was given a dispensation, he was pardoned, he was free to go.

I brought my grandmother a bowl of ice cream and rubbed her swollen feet. I made a note to myself: Don’t get old. She started to rambled about a theory she had about how Grandpa conspired to dirty her house, how she was very tidy, and he was always messing things up. Then she cried when she realized he was gone.

I thought I found him in the backyard. He used to grow roses and flowers on one side, and monster tomatoes and squash on the other. He had been a patient gardener. He always insisted on having plants in the flower boxes on the front porch. Theirs was probably the only house in Newark that always had something growing. But the yard had not been tilled in at least a year and part of it was fenced off for a dog run for my sister’s Labrador. There was a mobile basketball hoop set up where the patio furniture used to be, for my nephew. There was only one rose bush still growing in a wire trellis. My dad had given up smoking years ago, and he came outside and we had a cigarette in silence.

Mix CDs - The Poor Man's Greeting Card

So I made another CD – I guess it’s my thing. This one was for a friend who was having trouble with her relationship, with her own insanity, and with the overwhelming pressure of living in LA. Each track was chosen with care:

Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood – Nina Simone
Her SO was not really supporting her decision to change as a person – when you’re not your whole self for a long time, change can be disconcerting.

When I Get It Right – Joan Armatrading
This song is about how people (in this case, her parents) make you feel like making mistakes is unforgivable; instead of unconditional love, you are faced with constant recrimination for your behavior. The confusion of being yourself in a society that demands conformity.

Safe and Sound – Idlewild
About how we embrace or don’t acknowledge our self-destructive tendencies until we are forced to confront them “you’re safe and sound, until you hit the ground”.

Can’t Be Trusted – One Star Motel
As a song sung to the self – about not knowing and believing in your own decisions and power.

Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying – Belle & Sebastian
That overwhelming feeling that where you’re at is not where you need to be.

Don’t Be Shy – Cat Stevens
“Don’t be shy, let your feelings roll on by.” Yusef Islam claims, and I think he’s right about this one. “Don’t wear fear, or nobody will know you’re there.” If you are afraid of being yourself, then who are you?

Individuality – Phranc
“The world would be a pretty boring place, if everyone was the same”. Sing it sista, ...er, brotha,… er jewish lesbian folksinger.

Don’t Stop Believin’ – Journey
Because well, you can’t. That defeats the whole purpose.

Everyone Knows It But You – David Mead
“You’re a gift more than good, in a season renewed, and everyone knows it but you.” I wish I could send this song to all my friends when they feel alone or not good enough, because I truly feel it about the people I care about.

Google - The Poor Man's P.I.

So I decided to google my past relationships. Well, not the “relationship” per se, but the other person in it.

Unfortunately, most of the people I’ve been involved with have fairly common names, but I may have found my first non-coital sexual partner. I was 15, he was 18. His parents thought I was a good influence on him, my mom actually evaded, then defied a police officer one night after she had to pick myself and some friends up from his friend’s house after the busses stopped running (we ignored the schedule!). I sent him an email asking if he worked at the Sweet Factory in Westlake Mall in 1992-93. Waiting for a reply.

Then I tried to find this guy I mentioned in my freshman year journal; he had been this Mormon guy I met while we were both counselors at a camp for the physically challenged. Our love was pure and chaste, and my freshman year journal reflected how I longed for a relationship without sexual pressure. A later entry talked about how he had completely changed and become a “Jack Mormon” – drinking, smoking, and having pre-marital sex which he confessed to me over summer break, sometime around the time he told me “I always wondered how big your breasts were.”

Anyway, I was curious about him – he had been a musician, and had loved the band Tool. I wondered what happened to him. So I looked him up. I didn’t find him, but I found this guy with a subtly amusing webcomic called Scary-Go-Round. So my search wasn’t a complete loss.

All I Never Wanted

I admit it. I covet an iPod. It started slowly at first: in the beginning, my attitude was “whatever”. I found their silhouette ad campaign annoying. And the fact that it was Apple, for some reason, ignited an unexplainable rage.

But soon, I started thinking about driving in my car with it; all my albums? My visor CD holder only holds 12! Sometimes I have to stop before I go out and flip through CDs, gauging my musical temperature. I would arrive 5 minutes earlier with an iPod. It would change my life!

Then I realized they were sucking me in again. The Consumerist Machine was on the prowl, and wanted me to buy some other product. And yes, it will change your life –in that you will use your hard earned funds to fuel the economy, and end up with a thing. A thing that will inevitably need repair or assistance at some point, and you will continue paying for it’s purchase.

But then I thought about how cool the people passing me each day, with their little white earphones in, not acknowledging my presence, looked.

Luckily, before I did anything rash, I ran across this little wonder; iNo.

Via Attu

Two Types Of People - 1.1 or "The Toilet"

“Two types of people” will be a continuing piece on this blog. In this first episode, we discuss the toilet.

There are two types of people in the world. Those that flush a dirty toilet and go about their business, and those that call out to the perpetrator and say “You didn’t flush” or “Something didn’t go down” and then walk away WITHOUT flushing the offending matter.

What is the purpose of this? You would really rather wait for someone to come in and flush the toilet rather than press the lever yourself? Really? It’s not like the handle is coated in shit! The building is from 1922, and the management company hasn’t fixed anything since 1982. Occasionally, something will float back up. I know it’s distasteful, but the shit/piss is not going to jump out of the bowl and beat you about the head and shoulders screaming “You’re not my mother!” if you are the one that sends it down the pipes.

Maybe my experience with children has desensitized me, but when I see someone’s leavings in the toilet, I just flush it and move on. That’s right roomie, remember when you had that bad stomach flu? I saw both the contents of your stomach and your colon, and I’m sure you don’t remember me pointing it out to you…because I didn’t.

I just shrugged, flushed, and “went to work” so to speak. I certainly didn’t take it personally, or if I did, it was in a sort of Freudian Anal Stage context of “Look what you produced, that’s fantastic!”

I’ve lived with two of these people. The first was a childhood friend who was cluttered yet immaculate in terms of housekeeping – with her, I truly felt remorse if it happened, because of her delicate constitution. The second one, however, is truly bringing stones into her glass house. I cannot count the number of times I’ve cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, scrubbing every surface, cleaning the knobs on the stove, while she has yet to once clean the small common area we share.

I can accept most personality traits with grace, but hypocrisy really gets my goat.

To FOX Broadcasting Company, local:

Dear Fox 11,

I have to say, coming home from an acquaintance’s lonely bday drinks, that I am super-pumped that M*A*S*H is on right now! Kudos! I love coming home and knowing that Pierce and Hunnicut (or Trapper John, depending on the season) are here, ready to delight me with their war-time humor.

Like tonight for instance, it’s a Hunnicut episode with Potter and Winchester, about hemorrhagic fever. Those fellas know how to entertain!

Anyway, I just want to say thanks for this. But I do have a concern.

What is the deal with; 1) Bringing back A Current Affair, 2) putting it on at 11pm, thus displacing the 11pm-I’ll-go-to-sleep-right-after-it,-I-swear-episode of The Simpsons? What gives? That’s great that you’re once again going to be “breakin’ all the rules” with your cutting edge news program (previously hosted by Maury Povich), but at what price Homer?

Hold on –
The guys are going to try isotonic saline, it’s a crap shoot, but this poor kid’s putting out a liter/hour.
Are you sure? Any use of saline could result in dishonorable discharge and sanctions.
I say go for it.
Thanks, Colonel.

Okay, I’m back. Anyway, I rely on that nightly episode of The Simpsons – I know a few people who do; and well - we’re all pissed. It was important to know that all was right in Springfield before we drifted off to sleep.

Look, I forgave you when you tried putting Drew Carey at 11; we both realized that was a mistake (you were even still running ads that said “Simpsons at 11” for weeks into the schedule change; I was thwarted every night, but I still stood by you). And you fixed it; you did the right thing.

The guys have successfully used a microscopic amount of saline, and saved the troops!
They may even get published!
Oh, and Winchester didn’t really marry that woman while on leave, but they had an un-wedding ceremony anyway.

But now you want to put this “news program” on at 11, and I can’t understand where you’re coming from. I thought we had a relationship based on mutual respect and fulfillment of needs, but I can see that you’re not thinking of anyone but yourself. I never thought I’d ever say this, but I’m disappointed in you.

Let’s try to think of a way to make this right,

AK-77

Small world report 3/11/05

It happens all the time, but many of us call it “coincidence”. There’s a metaphysical theorem however, that coincidences are just the universe telling you you’re on the right track. There’s also one that says the feeling of déjà vu is actually the remembrance of a precognitive dream, but I’m only going to deal with the coincidence one tonight.

My writing partner and I had some good news about our third script, so we decide to go out that night for celebratory mojitos and appetizers at our place in my neighborhood. We sort of “go Hollywood” and decide to write up our notes at the table, and our waiter, the fantastic Ray-Ray, asks us about our script, and what we write. We say this one is a comedy, but our first one (the one that initially attracted our agent) is a horror/action.

He mentions a production company that’s looking for horror – and, hold onto your seats, it’s the SAME company we just sent the script to! Coincidence? Then he says “My very good friend works there.” And is it possible? It’s the SAME person we sent it to! They knew each other from Austin (remember that town).

So the next day, while recovering from the inevitable sugar/alcohol over-hang, I get an email from an old acquaintance who is playing a show next week, after which he is headed to – wait for it…Austin! He’s going to be playing the South by Southwest (SXSW) independent musical festival!

Now this is where it gets down right spooky – you remember my ex? The Anatomy of a Breakup? So a couple weeks ago he’s gushing about this guy named Paul Barman – for some reason, I don’t place the name immediately, but when he plays him, I remember he had an appearance on Deltron 3030. I’m rather indifferent to his work outside that album, but it reminds me of this kid Rjyan who goes by the name CEX (by virtue of being a white kid from a prominent East-Coast school). He’s never heard of CEX, and thus the conversation, and later the relationship, ended.

So today I get my second CD from InRadio. If you’ve ever thrown out their tear-outs from the Utne Reader, I urge you to go through your recycling bin. For my ex’s birthday, I gave him a year’s subscription. The second song on the album? The electronic wonderment of CEX entitled “Get In Yr Squads”. This issue of InRadio? Sponsored by SXSW, with a special announcement thanking all the people who have given InRadio as a gift!

And thank you, universe! I’m listening!

Once, I put a desk fan under the sheets...

while he was in the bathroom to try and dry out the wet spot. Who am I kidding? We were amazing together, it was wet spots. Anyway, the sheets just puffed up like the parachute in that gym game, but were still damp and clammy.

I wish I had known about these back then.

To porn or not to porn?

My partner and I just saw Inside Deep Throat, and it's raised alot of questions. I've had a pretty loose opinion of porn, a sort of live and let live attitude with a little healthy curiousity mixed in. I own a few works of literary porn (novels by Anonymous, small magazines with names like Vibrations and Deviations), the Erotic Universalis by Taschen (17th century woodcuts are HOT!), and the film Behind the Green Door. I watched a little bit of contemporary porn with my ex, but it didn't really turn me on. I'm more into the "artsy" porn.

Anyway, the documentary, in its final minutes, really makes a case for the difference between the filmmaker-driven/revolutionary erotic movies of the 70s and the mass marketed, plotless porn of today. And I have to say there is something to it - you can almost feel the difference (pun intended) between the natural young women in the old pornos and the bleached, sculpted artificiality of today. Even though their attempts were flawed, the people in the 70s had a sort of naivete that makes their product more palatable to me.

So now I'm conflicted, because it seems erotica has lost it's heart, and the liberated have become the subjected.

Workin' it...er, maybe not.

So I had an interview for a part-time job at a salon. I haven't been on a professional interview in over two years, and my skills, to be kind, may have been "rusty".

I first met with the owner. She asked some simple questions about my duties at the jobs listed on my resume, then went into Double Jeopardy -

"Which one of these jobs required the most teamwork?"
Easy - managing a coffee shop in college. With 5 managers and 25 employees, I learned to pitch in and manage personalities to get things done.

"Which one of these jobs was the most stressful, and why?"
Easy - being an agent's assistant at a Beverly Hills talent agency, because your job was never done, and came home with you - your boss calling at 9pm to ask about a task from the day.
(True story - 9pm phone rings "Hey, it's J".
I think it's some guy I met at a bar, so switch to sexy voice "J?"
"Yeah, did you send that fax to Elliot Gould?"
or, the other agent who called Saturday during the day before the Oscars to find out which restaurant the Dreamworks party was at. I had given him a printed out notecard with all of his party information on it, but he had lost it and he didn't want to call any of his coworkers to ask them, even though they were all going to the same parties.)

"How did you deal with the stress?"
"I used to drink alot" BUZZ!
I recovered with something about not internalizing things out of my control and staying on top of the things that were. And they did call me in for a second interview, but I'm pretty sure the girl who got the job didn't admit to a misspent youth.

Mais oui, mademoiselle

Three words I long to hear. I've been checking into some tour packages to Paris, they seem pretty reasonable; with plenty of optional activities or the opportunity to just sit in cafes and smoke and drink all day and night. I'm already buying two additional black turtlenecks.

I remember hearing a piece on NPR about how Paris was no longer the bastion of racial harmony it once was for black ex-pats - the author remarked that as her french got better, the social climate got cooler. Lucky for me, my french is just this side of passable, but maybe I'll pack a few maple leaf t-shirts to be safe.

I've been listening to Nina Simone, Eartha Kitt, Edith Piaf, and any Ella Fitzgerald song with "Paris" in the title to psych myself up. I've always wanted to go to Paris, but always thought it would be with a significant other, or a group of girlfriends. Neither one of those has panned out, so I'm trying to get excited about drifting alone through the city streets. Maybe I'll try to look up that guy with the 9:10 am website that shows what he's doing each day at 9:10 in Paris...

In your face IRS!

So I managed to drag myself over to my computer, gather my W2s and student loan interest statements, and filed my taxes this weekend. Hooray! Jessica said I could get more money back if I deducted our dinners (we write at night), and movie tickets (research) but I haven't been diligent about my reciepts. Next year, Uncle Sam is going to get taken to the cleaners.

Anyway, in 10-16 days I will be collecting some cash, and the age-old question has arisen - save the money and plan to move, or screw it and go to Europe? There are pros and cons to both suggestions, and the basic "instant gratification" premise with which to wrestle. I also toyed with the idea of using the money as a downpayment on a repossessed home, and becoming a slumlord. So many choices!

Cigarettes and Red Vines

Yes, it's an Aimee Mann song, but it's also a message - "Two things that are delicious fresh."

And maybe that's why I've been smoking 10 cigarettes a day. They just taste better when they're fresh. I used to smoke a pack a week, before I was a confirmed smoker. I started to notice that by Saturday night, my Monday morning smokes didn't taste the same - a difference that became more noticable the less I drank.
Until recently, I was smoking only about 5 a day - the more I smoke, the less sensitive my taste buds, the more they demand freshness. A vicious cycle.

Anatomy of a Breakup, The Musical

So I decided a healthy thing would be to make an album of our realtionship. You'll note that The Kings of Convenience have two songs, which is ironic because I bought the CD on my ex's suggestion. I found it mopey, but now I love them...coincidence?

Prologue:
Our young heroine fears for her heart, and issues a bold proclaimation:
Seeing Other People – Belle and Sebastian

First Act:
Time has passed, and our male lead has sufficiently enticed our heroine into exclusivity - now comes the confusion of emotions.
Love is no Big Truth – Kings of Convenience
Love Like Laughter – Beth Orton
Sorry or Please – Kings of Convenience
Bitter Strings – The Jealous Sound

The Breakup:
Unlike the song, our male lead does not "meet you here today", but rather comes to our heroine's house - although the heroine does not mind, the chorus is rather upset by this strategy.
Kiss and Say Goodbye – The Manhattans


The Aftermath:
Our heroine must grieve, and confront her own feelings. Sadness and hurt, but possibly some acceptance?
Ne me quitte pas – Nina Simone
Simonize – Pete Yorn
I Never Wanted - Idlewild
Tear in your Hand – Tori Amos

The Desperate Action:
The acceptance at the end of the Aftermath was false, and our heroine takes desperate action; contacting our male lead.
Hear Me Out – Frou Frou

True Acceptance:
The heroine, stymied by a negative response to her desperate action, finally accepts that this is, indeed, the end. She realizes that despite her feelings for him, our male lead is breaking up with her for his own reasons that she cannot change/influence.
Why Should I Cry for You? – Sting
How’s it Going to Be – 3rd Eye Blind
Smoke – Ben Folds Five

Resolution:
In some way relieved, and hoping that eventually perhaps they can actually "be friends" (she's always remained close with those for whom emotions have been felt), our heroine gladly accepts the lessons learned.
Another Lonely Day – Ben Harper
After You're Gone - Bessie Smith
The Hurt – Cat Stevens

Inagural Blogural

Welcome to my first post!

[after 10 minutes of staring at the screen]

So...here's my theory - there are a finite number of experiences in life, and infinite reactions. Each time you have an certain experience, say - for the sake of arguement, ending a relationship - there are infinite ways you can react to it. Some of the ways I've previously reacted (not recommended):

1. Going to the person's house, drawing a chalk outline on their driveway, pouring condensed milk in the crotch of said drawing, and writing "excessive ejaculation" with an arrow indicating it was the cause of death.

2. Writing 10 letters to the person in the course of three days.

3. Attempting suicide.

4. Crying in bed for a week, claiming to have pneumonia to get out of work, not eating or showering, and listening to a specially prepared "sad mix" tape until it destroys itself to get away from you.

5. Complete and utter stoicism, followed by a 24 hour drunken binge wherein you makeout with any guy who happens across your path.

6. Making a friend into "rebound guy" by finally giving it up to him, only to suffer the inevitable consequences.

You get the idea. Anyway, it's happened again. But this time, Cat said "You are a new person in a situation that's all too familiar to all of us". And she was right. I'm none of those people now, but I embrace them; because without them, I would be making plans right now to show up drunk at his AA meeting.