Today's My Brother Chris's B-day!

(Yes, my parents were apparently ridiculously fertile and horny in the month of May.)

Why My Neighbors Scare Me:

Message on my answering machine when I got home last night...

"B_____ P_____ D_____, your next door neighbor.
Do you by chance wear a 7 1/2 shoe? If you do, I have 25 pairs of brand new shoes I want to give you.
I will not be home all evening."

My Rant on the Absurd in Movies (and Around Movies):

This week I saw two interesting movies, THE TRIPLETS OF BELLEVILLE (TTOB) and IN THE CUT (ITC). TTOB was a wild wild ride into the absurd. And it was a damn fun ride. In it, cargo liners tower in the sea like 100-story skyscrapers, little old ladies take on the French mafia, the bad guys are ridiculously square-shaped and link together like legos, old ladies bomb frogs outta watering holes for dinner, bicyclists have calves ripped with muscles that look like unripened pears.

The absurd is overwhelming and overwhelmingly fun, an acid-trip meets a jolly ensemble of crazy old women intent on beating down evil.

This kind of absurdity is good.

Then we get to ITC. This movie (and aspects surrounding it) is also absurd, but not in quite the same warm and fuzzy kind of way.

THINGS I HEARTILY DISLIKE ABOUT IN THE CUT:

1. The ending--Good god, people! Can NO ONE write a suspense movie nowadays that is able to lead us along a series of twist and turns, leave us guessing as to whom the murderer is, and NOT take the cheap way out by revealing the murderer to be a completely trivial and underdeveloped character in the movie that NO ONE would've possibly guessed simply because he/she is in the movie for, like, five minutes only? Yes, we want to be toyed with as viewers, but in the end, we want to at least know that PERHAPS we could've figured the mystery out if we'd thought about it enough, that the keys were there to do so if we'd only seen them. This is one of my biggest complaints about thrillers today--including the much more despised ending of MYSTIC RIVER which also pulls the same lame stunt. Yes, Big Hollywood, we like to be entertained and toyed with as an audience. But yes, we'd also like to be able to PIECE TOGETHER the mystery ourselves in some sort of logical manner.

2. The critics--Have you never seen a famous person's tits before, oh great critics of the cinema? I don't know HOW many people raved and raved about Meg Ryan's performance in this movie--"it was a brave and daring performance for our little Meg Ryan" and "she plays a role completely different than any other she's played before" and "she deserves to be up for an academy award." Ok, folks. She gets naked in the movie. This is perhaps the ONLY thing separating Meg Ryan's performance from any other schlocky romantic comedy she's done before. She's good in it, but she's not "slit my throat in amazement" good. And I am so sick and tired of critics who allow themselves to be convinced that just because a famous person bares a boob, they're being revolutionary. SO WHAT?!?! If her acting could back up that raw nudity, then yeah, maybe she'd deserve a little bit more credit. And not to say that she's BAD in it, but there's about 30 other talented actresses that could've done just as well (or, dare I say it, BETTER).

3. Sexism--This movie portrays men as dogs. Flat out. They are terribly uncomplicated creatures--obsessed with sex, calling up women to say stuff like "Now stick your middle finger down between your legs," possessing violent natures. This is an example of where feminism takes a dark unwanted road that leads to sexism instead of revolution or thought or change. And thing is, I really like Jane Campion (the director). I think she is a thoughtful woman--I've always liked the movie THE PIANO. And this is wear I will segue into...

THINGS I WANTED TO LIKE OR UNDERSTAND MORE ABOUT IN THE CUT

1. Jane Campion IS an intelligent woman and (based on other movies of hers that I've seen, I'd venture to say) an intelligent feminist. So I was extremely confused by this movie. It seemed at its very core to be sexist. It seemed to look at guys as uncomplicated and disturbingly sexual creatures. And granted, I'm sure any and all of us women (and or men too, really) have interacted with males who fall into this category. But in this movie, EVERY male falls into this category. From the stalking ex-boyfriend who flips out in the middle of a crowded street when Ryan tells him she doesn't want to see him again to her student, a massive muscular sexy intimidating fellow that exudes sexuality and so obviously enjoys playing her, to the cop that seduces her (or whom she seduces?). And I'd really like to think that she had some interesting point she was trying to make by making her male characters such stereotypes, but as of now, I'm missing it.

2. Her female lead was slightly interesting but could've been more interesting (perhaps if Meg Ryan hadn't been picked to play her--though I understand the impetus... Meg Ryan, queen of the pure romantic comedy, debased by the underworld of violence and sex--clever choice actually, had she been able to pull it off). Campion toys with the idea of female raw sexuality, a female sexuality that is darkly similar to this gritty male sexuality that she stereotypes in this movie. And that COULD be interesting, if it was developed more. If the acting had been better. If we would've gotten more of a sense of Meg Ryan's character and what attracted her so much to this underworld of sexuality.

3. I WANTED, desperately wanted, to think that Campion was making some sorta larger statement, exploring some sorta interesting aspect of maleness/femaleness or feminism, but I just can't figure out what it is. But I'd like to give her enough credit to think that she couldn't just be falling prey to the whole "feminism as masked sexism" deal. I hope that she wasn't. Maybe she just wasn't successful in getting her ideas across. Maybe, unlike The Piano, the suspense realm just ain't her cup of tea. Either way, I'd say go see this movie. It's gritty and left me intrigued enough to write this blog, so maybe you'll find it to be worthwhile. If not, track Meg Ryan down and kick her ass. (It's about time SOMEONE does it.)

Random Question of the Day:
Is my next-door neighbor's shoe-offer a bizarre ploy to get me into his apartment so that he can beat me unconscious with a rubber hose while humming the national anthem to himself and wearing a tu-tu?

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Random Post-Birthday Ruminations

So I had a really really nice birthday yesterday. Probably one of the nicest birthdays I've had in a really long time. Even the most menial mundane events that normally would find a way to piss me off had the sparkle of goodness about them yesterday--the woman who grinded against my bumper and didn't even stop to see if she'd messed it up because she was too busy yapping on her cell phone, for example. Even this had some sort of magical glow to it that kept me from being angry and left me thinking, ah, ain't life beautiful?

No, I wasn't cracked out on any illegal substances. But damn if I don't wish I could figure out how to make EVERY day like this one.

Anyways, I'd like to thank the people big and small who contributed to making the day a lovely one, especially one individual in particular that made the evening much lovelier than I'd even expected it would be (despite my completely euphoric optimism all day)... I am so blown away by this person's thoughtfulness and sweetness and beauty that I could yammer on and on about it for a really long time, but as you will just become nauseated and think me a romantic sap, I will spare you any excessive yammerings... He knows who he is and what he means to me, and that's all that matters. So phbt.

Some really kick-ass stuff I've gotten so far for my birthday:

Money donated to the chimpanzees at the monkey house at the Cleveland Zoo

;

The 10-in-1 Atari joystick;

A mini-keg of German beer;

Poetry Daily poetry book;

A sweet candle that smells like grape Koolaid;

A Mason Jennings cd;

The Lost in Translation dvd;

A sweet Nascar collectible hologram card (heh heh);

Flowers;

A henna-dye set;

Tarot cards;

A "Let's Not Listen to Her" (obscure reference from the Simpsons) Mixed cd.

Random Things I Realized on My Birthday:

I would venture to say that asparagus may be my own personal aphrodisiac;

My best drunk comes from wine--it's the kind of drunk that feels like an old friend wrapping their arms around you in a bear hug;

I am tired of suspense movies that reveal the killer to be... DUN DUN DUNNNNN... somebody that you never would've guessed in a million years because absolutely no clues were given to you that would make you venture in that direction of guessing (IN THE CUT and MYSTIC RIVER, for example). See tomorrow's blog for more on this;

I am THE worst at PONG--no one is quite as bad as me at it;

Skull squirt rings kick zombie squirt rings' asses!

Random Question of the Day:
If you could only experience one of the two for the rest of your life, which would you pick:
Really damn good sexual intercourse
-or-
Really damn good intellectual intercourse?

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February 24th, 1977, Astrological Description

Element: Water
Characteristic: perceptive

Polarity: Negative
Characteristic: reflective

Quality: Mutable
Characteristic: versatile

Your Birthday Facts:

Your star sign is pisces and your star symbol is the fishes

You were born on Thursday 24th February 1977 and Thursday's child has far to go

Your birthstone is amethyst which symbolizes sincerity

Personality Characteristics: Romantic, impressionable, emotional, artistic, hates to say no, dreamer, compassionate, amiable, idealistic.

Element Influences: Water people can be inward looking, processing their emotions. They often need other people to bring out their inner feelings.

Quality Influences: People with mutable qualities tend to change their mind frequently. They often like an unpredictable lifestyle and are very adaptable to new situations.

Polarity Influences: Your negative Yin/Yang exerts a receptive, quiescent and self conscious side to your nature.

Female best matched with: Aquarius, Scorpio.

Male best matched with: Taurus, Libra, Sagittarius.

People who share my birthday: George Harrison, Joe Lieberman, Wilhelm Grimm (of the Grimm Bros.).

Today in history:

1991 In its first free elections since the collapse of communism, Lithuania rejected the Communist Party
1981 The engagement of Prince Charles and Lady Diana was announced
1969 Mariner 6, the first spacecraft to fly by Mars, was launched
1968 The discovery of the first pulsar in space was announced
1946 Juan Peron was elected as the President of Argentina
1938 Nylon was commercially used for the first time in toothbrush bristles
1932 Malcolm Campbell set a new land speed record in 'Bluebird', in the USA
1920 Nancy Astor became the first woman to address Parliament

_________________
Some of this info comes from from Talkstar interactive

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Random "Slutty" Book I Am Reading: The Only Girl in the Car--Kathy Dobie

Three Slutty Recipes ("Quick and Easy and for Your Pleasure"):

Let me preface this by saying, I'm not really into specifics, so you kinda have to just wing it and hope these turn out ok if you try making them. Anyways, all three are real simple to make, don't take real long and (at least the first and last recipe) taste damn good when completed. Your friends/family/lovers/etc. will be impressed when you speedily whip these up and serve them.



Sauce with No Name

The ex-girlfriend of one of my grad school friends passed this recipe along to me, and it's a damn good one.

To serve four:

Two jars of Paul Newman's SOCKAROONI spaghetti sauce;
Two cubes of tofu (preferably firm or extra-firm, none of that "silken" crap);
Two frozen cubes of spinach.

Cook the cubes of spinach as you normally would, until they are thawed and warm. While they are cooking, mash/crumble the cubes of tofu with a fork until they are the consistency of loose ground beef. Pour both jars of the spaghetti sauce into a large saucepan. Throw the crumbled tofu into the saucepan and mix well. Once the spinach is done, drain it well. Then add the spinach to the sauce mixture. Cook sauce until it is thoroughly heated. It is a thick hearty sauce, almost the consistency of chili. Serve over pasta noodles of your choice (I prefer angel hair).

Variation: The original recipe calls for black beans as well, but as I have an aversion to beans (as a general rule), I've always opted out on adding them. But this is always an option--it would just require you guesstimating what would be the appropriate amount of black beans to add. However, if you DO go the black bean route, it is probably possible to serve the sauce on its own as some sort of chili dish, given that it is super-hearty and super-thick and super-flavorful.




Po-Tacos and/or Walking Tacos

This is probably gonna be the most vague, lame-ass recipe you've ever read. Enjoy.

PO-TACOS
(They used to serve these in the high school cafeteria and they were one of the rare dishes that actually tasted good.)

Large baking potatos;
Taco-stuffing ingredients (my favorites are shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, shredded cheese, black olives, and lots of salsa)

Bake the potatos until they are crunchy in the skins. (Do NOT use a microwave as this makes the skins mushy.) I usually bake a potato at 450 degrees for about 45 minutes, but this is for one potato and is also because I have very little patience when it comes to cooking dinner on a weeknight. Once the potatos are thoroughly baked, pull them out of the oven and (very carefully) slice each one in two halves. Then with a spoon, carefully scoop out the potato-y innards of each one, leaving the crunchy skins intact. (I usually turn the innards into some sort of potato sidedish like mashed potatos or something.) Fill the potato skins with your taco fillings. (It might be interesting to try stuffing these with some veggie ground-beef that's been stewing in some nice taco-spices. I have yet to try this but have always wanted to. Again--I'm lazy.) Eat.

WALKING TACO VARIATION
(These can be commonly found at carnivals or home-days booths.)

Single-serving bags of Fritos;
Taco-stuffing ingredients.

Throw all your ingredients in the bag on top of your fritos. This may require emptying out some of the fritos in your bag. March around your house eating your walking taco with a fork straight from your fritos bag. Smile because it's fun.




Chinese New Year Cookies

1 bag of semi-sweet (or milk chocolate if you're having a particularly sweet tooth) chips;
1 can of chowmein noodles;
1 jar of unsalted peanuts.

Slowly melt the bag of chocolate chips in a sauce pan (VERY low heat and make sure to constantly keep stirring so the chocolate doesn't burn). Normally, I think you're supposed to do this in some sorta double-boiler or something, if you have all that fancy cooking equipment which I do not. But as long as you keep stirring at very low heat, you should be ok.
Once the chocolate is completely melted, mix in the chow mein noodles and peanuts (I'd say a 3:2 ration of chowmein noodles to peanuts). Keep stirring and stirring as you add them until they're completely coated in chocolate. Then scoop out in heaping table-spoon sizes and drop onto a sheet of tin foil. Allow to harden and store in the refrigerator. Makes a yummy cross between candy and cookies.

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Today is My Sister's Birthday!

Happy birthday, Lesle, you old fart!

Random song that I'm super-digging at the moment:
"Clark Gable" by the Postal Service.

Random ruminations on my history with cars:

I've owned three cars in my lifetime...

1. The Beast.

My first car was a wagon--this was one of those 1980's piece of craps, and I adored it. It lasted me through a year or two in high school. I used to cart around 3 different people to and from school every morning in it.

Weird wagon events:

The wagon sent up monstrous smoke screens after it had been idling for a minute or two at the light. This was not a good thing when one Sunday morning my dad and I were stopped at a light on Memphis road on the way to the fleamarket. Of course there just happened to be a cop across the intersection from us. And of course he just happened to be on a motorcycle. When the light turned green, my dad just started swearing and trying to ever so slowly idle the car through the intersection. To no avail. Once the cop was able to see again through the enormous cloud of smoke, we'd gotten a ticket.

If my memory is accurate, neither of the front doors of this wagon opened from the outside. So one icy-cold day after I'd stayed late at school, I was scrambling into the backseat to open the driver's side door from the inside so I could get in. As I tugged on the inner door-handle, the handle cracked off in my hand like a brittle icicle. After that, I was unable to open the driver's side door from the outside OR the inside.

The gas gauge on this car was inaccurate, so one day after dropping off one of my friends on my way home from school, I headed with three other friends over to the gas station to get gas. My car ran out of gas about 6 feet away from the pump. So all three of my friends, in skirts (we had dressed up for some reason that day), had to get out of the car and push it to the pump. My friend Becky who thought she was the foremost expert on cars concluded that the car had run out of, not gas, but oil. Panicked, I called up my dad and explained the situation. He drove all the way out to the gas station, only to realize that the car was out of gas. All I remember is standing outside the car, my dad inside it behind the wheel obviously swearing up a storm though we could hear nothing because the car was all closed up. Needless to say, I got my ass kicked for that one.

2. I know I named this car, but I have no recollection of what it was.

This was my pontiac sunbird. I loved this car. It was a great little car and lasted me through senior year of high school and through all of college and grad school. It had its typical problems, but never anything major. I finally realized I had to get rid of it when I found out the repairs it would need cost more than the car was actually worth. In its last days, when I went to open the hood, the thing you pull on in the car came off in my hands. I was no longer able to open the hood unless I crawled underneath the car and finagled it with a screwdriver. Long live my sunbird.

3. The Great Purple Murple (aka Morrison).

Apparently when you give a car a name that is lengthy and begins with "The Great" or "Lord Master" or "King," you're bound to get attitude. And I've gotten it in buckets. This car is a piece of crap, a lemon, a driving heap of metal. It's a Ford Escort and it's a cool purple color. But that's where its coolness ends. Beyond its color, it is pretty much the Damien of cars.

Great Purple Murple incidents:

I have had this car less than two years I think. In this short period of time, I've had two (maybe three?) flat tires. One flat tire was exactly this time last year on my birthday. I woke up in the morning, waded through the snow to head off to work only to find that I had a flat. Things I learned from this experience--fix-a-flat does NOT work in cold weather (it took me two separate cans to learn this) and it is near impossible to change a flat tire when the car is marooned in waves of snow. The second flat was on my way home from Beachwood (thankfully) and occured shortly after I got on the freeway. It was of course POURING buckets that day, but since it was my day off (a Friday), I wasn't really all that upset. I figured, fuck it, i'll just walk home and call someone to pick the car up. I pulled off my shoes and started walking down the side of the freeway towards the Mayfield exit. Lesson I learned from THIS experience--guys are relatively useless. Only ONE person stopped to see if I needed help, and this was after at least FIVE separate cars with guys in them shouted catcalls at me out their window or beeped at me and gawked while they were driving by. Thank you to the couple who finally stopped and gave me a lift.

My super-traumatic freeway breakdown: I decided one Saturday afternoon a few months ago that I was gonna make the long trek out to the Southpark mall to buy my sister's b-day present. As I jumped onto 480, I realized the traffic was backed up forever b/c they had all but two lanes closed so that they could fill the chuckholes in the other lanes. So the traffic was stop and go for a good mile. I had been having no prior trouble with my car, mind you. My car was in the far left lane. The lane to the right of mine was the only other lane open. As I'm sitting there idling, my car just suddenly, completely outta the blue, stops running. Had I been moving, I woulda just coasted it off onto the shoulder. Problem was that I was at a dead stop. And the car wouldn't start again. Surrounded by ever-so-kind drivers (fuckers!), the people behind me noticed my distress and decided that once the traffic started moving, they were just going to go around me on the shoulder. Needless to say, I was freaking out. I was pretty much trapped in my car in the middle of the freeway. I couldn't get out because traffic had finally started to move and people were flying around my car ON BOTH SIDES. I desperately stared at my rearview mirror, hoping and praying for a cop to appear in it. And finally, after 20 minutes, one did. And commenced to drive right by my car without ever stopping. This pissed me off to no end because I was holding up a WHOLE LANE of freeway traffic, and yet the cop didn't even stop to help move me out of the lane. Finally, a car full of high school kids went cruising by on the shoulder and pulled up and stopped further up the freeway. The driver came running out of his car down the shoulder where a huge line of traffic was STILL barreling by at high speed. I was afraid this fella was gonna get himself killed, but he somehow managed to stop the traffic. (STOP THE TRAFFIC!) After he had, his friends came running over after him and pushed me (FINALLY!) off onto the shoulder and out of the heavy traffic. The kindly high schoolers lent me their cell phone and when this was no help, managed to flag down a tow truck that happened to be driving by. In the chaos of the moment, I only managed to give them a distracted, half-hearted thank you. But damn folks, these fellas were lifesavers. And I send them a big fucking kiss for being so goddamn lovely.

And that's the history of my cars. There is of course currently YET ANOTHER problem with my current car. But I am ignoring it in the hopes that perhaps someone will hit this one again in a parking lot and I'll end up with $800 of free cash like I did with my Sunbird once. THEN and only then (or perhaps if it conks out on the freeway again) will I waste any more money on this piece of shit.

I am again running out of blog ideas, so feel free to suggest potential topics in my comment section again and whenever you see fit from here on out.

Happy Thursday!

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Random Randomness

they will never know who i really am

explodingdog.com

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Random Ruminations on How I Came to be a Vegetarian

I'm sure this will alienate a good portion of my readers, but here goes. (And a shout-out to Markus in my comments section yesterday--this is probably one of the better examples of where self-reflection/philosophy and actively DOING something overlap, and maybe an even BETTER example of where WRITING something is in itself an active attempt at DOING something about the state of existence. Look how fired up you've gotten me! Heh heh.)

Anyways, I've been a vegetarian for... a little bit over eight years or so. When I originally decided to go veggie, it was for non-ethical reasons. I hadn't really given a damn thought to what went into the meat that I was giving up. I was a freshman in college and I was feeling the need to exert SOME sort of control over my life since everything was new and crazy and scary. So (inspired by my sister Lesley who's been vegetarian for even LONGER than me and started when she was like 11 or something) I decided that my diet would be a good--and healthy--way to exert some control over at least SOME aspect of my life. You see, I'm a bit of a control freak, so when my life gets sucked up into a whirlwind of chaos, I always find myself trying to retain control over SOME aspect of my life to make myself feel better--whether it be my diet (I was also vegan for a couple years--one of the most extreme forms of dietary self-control), or getting tattooed or pierced (an exertion of one's ultimate control over one's body by choosing what will become a permanent part of it). These things center me when things get crazy.

This was my mindset for a couple of years. I went into it to exert control over my life in some sorta way when my life felt like it was spinning out of control in that segue between high school and college, and I did a damn good job at it. After the first few months of meat-cravings subsided, I kept at it without ever looking back. And truly, I can't see myself EVER returning to a diet that includes meat.

Markus note: This is what I'd consider to be action without self-reflection. It served a purpose for me at that given moment (although it wasn't until years later that I realized the purpose it was serving), but it wasn't a self-reflective action.

Anyways, two or three years into my vegetarianism, I was working at the library and picked up a book called Slaughterhouse by Gail Eisnitz. This book shook my world up in just a few hours of reading. Now, believe me--I'm not into the sensationalizing of vegetarianism and animal rights that certain groups that will remain nameless (couPETAgh) like to engage in; in one respect what they do is valuable in that they get word out to the public about things that need to be known, but on the other hand, they make vegetarians look like crazies a lot of the time--like we're always sitting in the wings waiting to throw paint on your fur coat or pie a speaker in the face. But Slaughterhouse was a journalistic endeavor that, unfortunately, never saw the light of the television airwaves like it should have. In it, Eisnitz not only points out the suffering that animals are forced to endure as they go through the factory-farming process and then the slaughterhouse; she also focuses on the HUMAN aspect of destruction involved in the meat industry, from slaughterhouse workers who suffer debilitating carpel tunnel injuries and/or mental suffering from the job of slaughtering to the number of children (and adults) who've died as a result of improper meat inspection. I mean, I was just AMAZED at how much I hadn't thought about when I went into the whole vegetarianism-thing. By the time I finished reading the book, I KNEW that there was no way in hell that I'd ever go back to eating meat.

Wanting to know more about the topic, I feverishly went on to read more books about animal rights and vegetarianism, some notables being

Animal Liberation--Peter Singer;

The Sexual Politics of Meat--Carol J. Adams;

and most recently (and most popularly), Fast Food Nation

--Eric Schlosser.

Sidenote to Markus again--This is what I mean about the self-reflective act. Despite the fact that perhaps my actions WERE valuable initially simply because I was one less person pumping the market for meat-products, the action became a more valuable one ONCE I had reflected upon it. Now I am knowledgeable on the topic, can defend myself in arguments about vegetarianism, can do little write-ups on web pages like this one (in an attempt to "educate" others), etc.

Anyways, I could go on and on and on (believe me) about why I am vegetarian or why other people should at least educate themselves on the topic before they continue to eat meat, but as I only have limited space, I'll keep it short. Plus, I know there will be a billion and one comments in my comment section today (or I at least hope there will be) with people all riled up by my comments here, so I figure I'll just wait until then to yammer on some more about these topics.

The not-so-philosophical reason I don't eat meat:
I love animals. Any damn animal really. I love being around them and something about them (some ineffable quality they possess)--maybe their innocence, their inability to defend themselves, their affectionateness (in some cases), their beauty--and I can't imagine ever wanting to contribute to their needless deaths. I won't eat cow or pig simply for the same reason I won't cut up our family dog and serve her for dinner.

The more philosophical reason I don't eat meat:
I object to the whole concept of factory-farming, of turning animals (LIVING BEINGS) into faceless products, commodities. I object to the fact that a good portion of the general public allow animals' lives and beauty to be stripped away from them and WILLFULLY allow themselves to remain blind and ignorant about what goes into the food on their plates. We are not a people who NEED to eat meat anymore. We exist in a world where killing animals is not necessary for survival. And as I've demonstrated (and as the increasing number of vegetarians in the world prove), it is possible to live a healthy life free of meat. So eating meat causes unjustifiable and unnecessary suffering not for survival purposes but SIMPLY FOR THE SELFISH SAKE OF OUR TASTEBUDS. That, that, is a crime.

So...

Random question for the day: What are your views on vegetarianism?

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Perhaps not so random things I'm tired of this morning: Dragging my ass outta bed in the morning to come in to this shithole; the monotony of daily existence (every weekday is a countdown to the weekend which just flashes by and then it's back to the weekdays again; and then every week just blurs freakishly fast into the next one); the cold; driving; other people driving; talking to people; eating.

Not so random belated new year's resolution:
So in eight days, I'm going to be 27. I don't find the age particularly all that terrifying. But I am remarkably sick of aging. Birthdays aren't what they used to be--no more pomp & circumstance of primary school (the lavish sugary cakes, the sleep-over parties, the gazillion kiddie presents); just another reminder that life is passing you by REALLY damn fast.

This is why birthdays usually put me in a glum mood, even weeks ahead of time. Each time one rolls around, I find myself being reminded that this (life) is a one-shot deal. If I fuck it up and don't take advantage of it before it slips away, what a waste it will have been. Then I find myself reflecting back on what I've done so far. And that ain't much, folks. There's some meager hilights--I spent 3+ weeks driving around the country (camping and spending time in places such as the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, Big Sur, San Francisco, and Boulder, Colorado to mention a few), I have my master's degree (which doesn't seem like much at all as of late), I have good friends, I have loved and will continue to love.

These are things that make the days worth trudging through. And the prospect of exciting things to come also provides a hearty incentive.

But the 26th year of my existence was a crazy one, so looking into the window of 27 both scares me some and makes me feel boisterously excited and proud at the same time. During my 26th year I've found myself severed from old loves, happily stumbling across new loves, drawn close to old friends, disappointed in old friends, stumbling back across friends I hadn't talked to in years only to slip into the same harmony of the past, graced with the presence of new people in my life, having come closer to certain people in my family, and most importantly having loved loved loved.

And despite the crazy mix of both wonderful and terrible events this past year, I am relatively content with my life at the moment.

I do, however, find myself shocked/bewildered/troubled by one aspect of my life as of late. And this is the fact that some of my closest relationships have turned sour--some for obvious and clear reasons, and others for reasons completely unbeknownst to me. As of late, I feel like this nearly 27-year old serpent who is about to start shuffling off some thick skin of some fragment of her past life. And the sad thing is, I don't want to shake my way out of this--I don't want these people I love to slip off and out of my life with one quick shrug. So I'm scrambling to hang onto them with a mad fierceness. And yet they're just standing there, looking at me, not doing a damn thing. And it breaks my heart.

But you know what? As I'm rolling into the eve of my 27th year, I've decided the following: I have always tried my damnedest to show those I love how very much I love them, to maintain ties (difficult though it may be), to be there for people through thick and through thin. I struggle for those I truly love--I dig my heels in and try the fucking hardest I can to keep things good between us. I make an effort. But I am tired. I am so very tired of giving and not receiving in return. And unfortunately, some people just suck and don't return the favor. And everyone has some excuse, but each and every excuse is just getting more and more hollow.

So as of day one of my 27th year, I am on strike. I am hereby resolving to only keep forging ahead with those relationships where other people are also determined to keep a tight grip on my hand, to struggle through things with me and not just let me slip away when things in MY life get difficult and things in THEIR lives get easier. I am shouting out to the world, If you wanna be friends with me, you're finally gonna have to make a fucking effort, to grit your teeth and struggle with me instead of just slipping out of the picture when times get hard.

And don't get me wrong--I'm not saying I'm not gonna put myself out there and love selflessly as I have been. That's unavoidable. But I am gonna stop beating myself up over the people who are so willfully allowing themselves to slip from my hands and just let it happen already. I know in my heart, I've tried my damnedest. But I cannot allow my heart to be trampled on just for the sake of maintaining ties that are, apparently, important only to me--not if I'm never going to see any effort made in return. So from here on out, I am no longer making an effort with people who don't make an effort in return.

And hopefully as my 27th year approaches, all the cards will fall into place and the people who just aren't worth it will tumble, and the people who truly deserve my devotion and energy, who've deserved it all along, will remain standing.

This will be the mark of my 27th year. I hope it will be a good one.

Not so random question of the day: What is the meaning of life?

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Random ruminations on the art of flirtation:

(As excerpted from an email from long-ago)

Hm hm hm. Where to start. Ultimately, I think flirting is more about the sexiness of wit than it is anything else. So i think it's alright to flirt in a relationship because when done "correctly" it wouldn't involve anything that could get you in trouble in the first place. Ultimately, (and with regard to all of this, I'm speaking moreso for myself than as a general rule--this is the only kind of flirting I think is worthwhile) the fun of flirting comes in the recognition that you're both understanding the game and its "rules" in the same sorta way without having to say it. And pushing the limits of it without going over. It's all about the give and take of the whole power-thing.

Problem is, I think most people go into the flirting thing without getting it. It's like arm-wrestling. The point isn't to pick somebody who's WAY weaker or WAY stronger than you because it ain't gonna be fun then and sorta defeats the purpose. I don't think a lot of people GET that (especially a lot of guys) and so they go for the weaker person so they can exert themselves over them quickly and easily and conquer. But part of the fun is quickly scoping out a person and getting a sense of whether or not they're a good adversary, you know? And the fun of it isn't in the conquering but in the playing of the game.

Example--One of my favorite (though this may sound weird) flirtations with a feller:
When I was college, there was this guy who lived on campus that was perhaps THE most beautiful guy I've ever seen. In a hippie-ish (and less traditional) kinda way (yes, prettier than the Strokes, you bitches). I'd never really talked to him, just sorta noticed him from afar a few times. Well, one day I was walking out of class and down the stairs at the front of the building. I was caught up in the rush of people going down and I looked over and he was coming up in a mob of people. And our eyes locked like they do in cheesy movies. But they did. It was a moment where we were both aware of each other noticing each other. And then he half-stumbled on one of the stairs and I kinda smiled and headed off to class. And I remember thinking to myself that I definitely had the upper-hand in that whole situation simply because he'd stumbled and he knew that I'd seen it.

Well, like a week later, I'm in the cafeteria with my head sorta in a fridge filled with sandwiches and iced tea and stuff. And I was trying to find something to eat and had shit in my hands and this guy sneaks up next to me and says hey to me. And I'm totally caught off guard so I stumble over my response like a big stupid idiot and drop my sandwich on the floor. And the guy just paused and smiled this big toothy smile at me and then walked away.

And I totally dug that like nothing else because I knew he got it. He knew that he had lost the upper-hand the first time. And he picked up on me so very quickly that he KNEW that what he had to do was regain it, and that was the charge of our exchanges. I immediately dug the feller simply because he got it.
And THAT is what good flirting consists of (in my book). It's kinda like dancing or fucking. There's this beautiful back and forth between the two of you where you're constantly striving to be the more powerful one in the situation, to have the upper-hand, but you ALSO know when you need to give a little and let the other person get on top so that the chemistry continues.

And I also think flirting has to do with what you're NOT doing--not kissing, not fucking, etc etc. And the tension that arises from being aware that that possibility is always floating around in the background but that you're studiously not falling prey to it. And I think the deliberateness of occasional touching plays a role in that, yeah. But I think it plays a role because of the power thing. And I think kissing sorta moves outta the realm of that. In kissing (and fucking, obviously) something more is shared there. And there's a little bit less deliberateness and control involved. They require more of a concession and losing of control than just a touch. And I think flirting is all about your control of the situation.

So that's my whole theory. What do you all think?


Most randomly annoying commercial and (potentially) annoying show: The Male Intellect: An Oxymoron?







Will you be my anti-Valentine?


STAY TUNED NEXT WEEK FOR SOME OF THE FOLLOWING TOPICS:

How much I love West;

Why I'm so damn freaky;

My car;

A sort of story of my life in fairy tale form; and/or

What made me become a vegetarian.

Oh yeah, and a pre-emptive b-day shout-out to Mama-Bird (aka Dave):
HOOOOOOOAAAAAAAH!

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The Strokes--What's the Attraction

at-trac-tive
Function: adjective
1 : having or relating to the power to attract [attractive forces between molecules] [an attractive offer]
2 : arousing interest or pleasure

at-tract
Function: verb
a : to pull to or draw toward oneself or itself [a magnet attracts iron]
b : to draw by appeal to natural or excited interest, emotion, or aesthetic sense



Let us tackle the first part...

A. How do the Strokes arouse interest or pleasure in me?

1. I am "interested" in them because I find myself to be particularly fond of and engaged by their music. There is a certain rawness, an edge to it, that I find attractive and sexy. It makes me want to swagger into a dimly lit, smoke-filled New York City bar and challenge someone to a game of pool. They make me smile and feel something akin to "pleasure" when I listen to their cds in this shithole dungeon I call work.

2. They are cute fellas. They may not be the most traditionally foxy fellas, but they satisfy my cuteness quotient (and by cuteness, I mean "possessing a quality that makes me grin and feel a warmth towards them in my cold cold heart" in way that's similar to the way that cute goofy little kids make me feel)... They are slobby but in a charming way. They share my penchant for lack of grooming, kiddie t-shirts that fit just a LITTLE too snugly, unkempt hair, and the studied APPEARANCE of disinterest in personal hygiene. They are undeniably pretty boys, but pretty boys that most girls don't find pretty. There is something intriguing in that contradiction.

B. As for the second part ("to draw by appeal to natural or excited interest, emotion, or aesthetic sense"):

1. One need only attend one of their concerts to see the "excited interest" and "emotion" they are able to arouse in their crowds. They are perhaps one of the BEST concerts I've had the pleasure of attending. I saw them play at the Aragon in Chicago and the place was packed. The drummer (one of the two on my harem-list) ran around before the show videotaping the crowd, which in itself was rather endearing. They played with such cocky swagger that it was like being hypnotised--you couldn't take your eyes off them. And they just blew the place away. We were this huge writhing mass of sweaty bodies pulsating to each drum-beat, each chord strummed. I literally was soaked all the way through my panties (with sweat, idiots!) by the time I left and about FROZE my ass off on the way to the El. If that ain't a demonstration of their ability to draw people in with excited interest and emotion, I don't know WHAT is.

2. As for aesthetically appealing, screw you all. I find the fuckers sexy as all get out. They've got the sexiness equation down pat... Julian Casablancas (the lead singer) may not be the foxiest of fellow's, but what he lacks in good looks, he makes up for in cocky swagger and sexy voice. Neither was Jimi Hendrix the sexiest of fellas, but when he belted out that voice of his, damn if it didn't give the ladies one helluva boner. And, like Hendrix, Casablancas oozes self-confidence. And to me, ain't nothing sexier in a fella than self-confidence... And if this doesn't fit the "aesthetics" part of the definition closely enough, then I might refer you to Section A, Part 2. They's pretty, ladies and gentlemen. They's lanky and boyish and unkempt and have cutely messy hair and dress in 1970's clothes that I dig ever so much. And they're unselfconscious. These are the kindsa fellas I dig. What can I say? Some of us go for the jock-look, some of us go for the professional sports-player (Liz :), some of us dig that weird quiet girl that always sits at the back of the class, some of us dig the fella who wears skirts and dresses all in black. Ain't nothing wrong with ANY of these. Variety makes the world go round.

Random shout-out: Since it's his birthday today, I'd like to give a shout-out to Eleven. HOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAA! Be nice and wish him a happy b-day too, you lazy freaks!

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Random Drive-By Sucking

I am a guest-writer for Organic Mechanic today.
Check it out!

Random response to comment #4 on last Thursday's blog:
Why do five year olds wedge pennies/peas/marbles up their nose?

Random nostalgic moment: I miss moonboots!

Random quotation that I dig:
"My idea of a dream relationship is where we meet once a week, minimum, at an appointed time, do some deep breathing and maybe some stretching to warm up, then we each get five minutes to talk, uninterrupted. After that, we do some responding: 'I heard you say this, and this...' And then maybe we hug. The houseboy brings in raspberry leaf tea, and we talk about everything from sex to finances to communication. Afterwards, we eat some pancakes and sausages and smoke cigarettes in a giant claw-footed bathtub."
-- Choire Sicha

Random question of the day: Do you believe people's astrological signs play a role in sexual compatibility/chemistry and/or shared bathroom habits?
***********************
Please provide concrete examples to back-up your argument. Your response should include an intro and conclusion and should be double-spaced, no longer than 9 pages and no less than 5. Font size should be no bigger than 12. Margins should be one inch on each side.

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Random haiku:

Lint

O nebular fuzz
tight in my navel's blackhole,
stinking of sweet death.

Random nonsensical punchline in my dream last night:
"A fingerless divorce! Ha ha ha ha."

Random new addition to my harem:
Casey Affleck



Random movie review:

So this past Thursday, I watched the movie Gerry. My mom had recommended it with the warning that it was a slow-moving movie but if you stuck it out, you'd find the experience rewarding. The movie stars Matt Damon and Casey Affleck; in fact, they're the only two people in the whole movie. The plot revolves around them having gone on a hike on a hiking trail in the desert and, after wandering off the beaten path, getting lost in the desert. All this I knew even before sitting down to the movie.

What I wasn't expecting was that the movie would rattle me to my very core, leaving me unsettled and bothered all weekend.

We've all seen at least one or two of the "survivor"-type movies, the most recent (and most Hollywood-popular) being Castaway. These movies usually consist of man battling nature, man undergoing extreme duress and some sort of trial, and man emerging triumphant in the end. And most of them focus more on the "survivalist" aspect of the story. In Castaway, for example, Tom Hanks turns into some corporate goodie-goodie version of MacGuyver, using ice skates, random clothes, etc. to subsist on the island for years. Realistic.

But where Gerry differed is in its recognition that a) most normal people aren't Tom Hanks or members of the Swiss Family Robinson where conveniently, a handful of super-useful resources are given to us to live off of if this were to actually happen to us and b) consequently, not every story has a happy ending where the main character survives years in the wild only to find himself swooped back to civilization again to makeout with some chick in the rain.

What was so startling about Gerry was its ability to truly (and honestly) capture the bleakness and desperation one must feel when faced with such a harrowing situation as being lost in the desert. Nearly 70-75% of the movie was completely devoid of dialogue which was also unsettling and yet somehow more honest than a Tom Hanks who befriends a volleyball in order to allow for dialogue so that the ever-important, o holy "plot" can progress. In Gerry, there are gratuitously long shots of landscape and the two men's movement--for example, an unbearable 3 minutes or so are spent in a semi-closeup shot (just their torsos and heads) of the two characters walking, unspeaking, through the desert, their shoes crunching loudly, the camera and the two men never changing position despite all their walking, never really getting anywhere despite all their attempts.

Never before has a "survival" movie truly captured (please excuse these overused expressions, but you get what I mean) the "condition of humankind" and the "trial that is human existence." Midway through the film, after the two men are on their 2nd, 3rd (or maybe 4th? It's never quite clear) day without water, I suddenly found myself completely shaken when I realized how aware these two people must be of their imminent death if they don't find water. They were literally staring death in the face, and it was upsetting to even begin to think of what this must feel like. It probably was the mirage-scene that pounded this point home for me--definitely one of the most harrowing scenes in the movie (in any movie I've seen as of late).

The bleakness and yet honesty of the movie was unnerving, left me thinking that yes, this is in fact the human condition--always being reminded of the looming approach of our death but continuing to trudge forward despite the seeming futility of it all.

And as much as I really want to yammer on and on about the ending, I won't spoil it for you. The climactic scene caught me completely off-guard to the point that I didn't even realize what was happening until it was already over with. The end of the movie is one of the most haunting series of scenes I've ever seen in a film--blowing the ease with which we grasp onto our morality and our understanding of what love is into a billion pieces in just a few fell swoops.

Gerry was a stark and yet startlingly beautiful movie with an edge and understanding absent from way too many films nowadays. I wholeheartedly recommend it but reiterate my mother's warning: patience is a virtue.

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The story goes like this:

You were maybe five years old. We were over your grandmother's apartment, for Christmas I think. Maybe Thanksgiving. Anyways, your mother and your grandmother are in the kitchen cleaning up the dishes and gabbing. I don't think any of your brothers and sisters were around yet. Maybe your brother? I can't remember. If he was, he was an infant.

So I'm laying there on the couch, dozing off some from that tryptophan in the turkey--maybe it was Thanksgiving then--some football or something on the television. You'd been playing upstairs in your grandmother's bedroom. I heard a noise on the stairs and, still groggy, I half-opened my eyes. There you are, perched on your grandmother's stairs, hands pushed through the railings, pointing a gun at me.

...The story's always the same, never overly pregnant with tons of irrelevant details, so it's stayed pretty consistent over the years. And it's been told many times--at least once or twice a year, always by my father over dinner, always when there's guests other than just our immediate family--new ears to tell it to. But even when there aren't new ears, we still like to hear these stories we've heard a million times (especially when they're about us). That special moment when you can bask in the grins of everyone listening, remark about what a dumb kid you were, that kinda thing. My dad's a good storyteller. That's why we don't bemoan our fate when he launches into a story we've heard thirty times before like we would other adults...

So I'm lying on the couch, wide awake by now, and you're pointing a gun straight at me, maybe 10 feet away. [...Me with my little dirty-blond page-boy haircut, freckles, probably some cute girlie green corduroy jumper...] I shout, "Rosemary!" hoping that would bring your mom or your grandma running into the living room. Meanwhile I slowly get up off of the couch and start to talk quietly to you: "Lauren, honey, put that down. You shouldn't be playing with that." You pick up something in my tone, maybe an undercurrent of fear, and you interpret it as me being disappointed in you or mad at you, so you start to tense up and cry. You continue to point the gun at me nonetheless. Meanwhile your grandma and mother have come in and both are shocked--open-mouthed and gawking but unspeaking. I weave my way around the coffee table to head slowly towards the bottom of the stairs, never taking my eyes off of you. I'm trying to talk soothingly to you, telling you to put down the gun, but my voice is coming out too urgent. So you're looking scared and continuing to cry. I reach the bottom of the stairs, your pudgy little hands are still wedged between the banister rails (I think you also got your head stuck in between those rails once too). I start to inch slowly up the stairs towards you when suddenly you yank your arms out from in between the bars. I feel relieved. But only for a split-second because you turn and point the gun straight at me again, not sure what to do, crying really hard now. My heart leaps into my throat and your mom and grandma are obviously terrified. The damn thing's pointed straight at my head. But finally as I work my way up towards you, you lower the gun, ever so slowly, and I take the gun from your hands.

Here there's usually a general exhale from the listeners who haven't even realized they'd been holding their breath. Then there's always a barrage of inevitable questions, the most common being:

Q: Where'd the gun come from?

A: (grinning) It was her grandma's. She was living by herself and was afraid of getting the apartment broken into. So she was keeping the thing... LOADED!... underneath her pillow.

Chuckles. And then we break out the dessert.

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For those of you who haven't noticed, my comments sections weren't working this morning. So I caved and finally switched to a new server, which means all your previous comments were lost. *sniffle* So my apologies to all you diligent commenters. But keep on keeping on!

Your mission over the next few days:
I'm getting bored with trying to think up my own blogging ideas, so next week I'd like to write about YOUR topics and/or ideas instead. So think of topics/ideas you'd like to hear me ruminate on in my blogger next week, and I'll pick some of my favorites and (while worshipping your wit and intelligence at coming up with these ideas) use them next week in my blog. Thanks!

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Random Day o' Nekkidness

So as I mentioned in a previous blog, I went with a couple friends to the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival (MichFest) this past August. I had been told ahead of time by one of my friends who had gone the year before that there is a plethora of nekkidness at this festival--it's a chicks-only thing, so many (and I mean MANY) women take advantage and either spend the week (if the weather's nice) walking around in the buff or at least walking around topless.

Now, I was raised in a nekkid-friendly family--my sisters and mom barge in and out of the bathroom while other people are taking baths, peeing, etc. etc. and I've had many a conversation with my mom while i was propped on the toilet and she was plunked down in the tub shaving--so needless to say, I wasn't all that freaked out at the prospect.

Anyways, the first full day I was at the festival, I decided to take part in a workshop called something to the effect of DRAWING AND SELF-IMAGE. The point of the workshop was to get you to sit in front of a mirror and draw a nude self-portrait to get you really thinking about how you perceive your own body. (*Sidenote--as potentially lame as the workshop may sound, it was actually quite interesting to see the drawings people ended up with--women with enormous breasts usually had portraits where the breast-size was mutatedly large and that kinda thing.) Going into the workshop, I knew my shirt was gonna have to come off at some point and I wasn't real worried about it. But as the time grew near, I started to get surprisingly fidgety--when was an appropriate time to take it off? perhaps I shoulda just taken it off BEFORE I got there? Once we were finally decked out with charcoal, large sheets of paper, and mirrors, it was time.

And off it came. But strangely enough, I was slightly uncomfortable at first. But this dissipated quickly when I started drawing. Mirror in one hand, pencil and paper in the other, sitting in cargo shorts in the grass in a little grove of trees with twenty other women, swatting away an occasional confused ant that found itself skittering towards my navel or a fly droning next to my ear. It was quite liberating, and I ended up with a couple pretty wicked-cool sketches.

At the end of the workshop, I sat debating whether or not to throw my shirt back on or just continue to go topless for the afternoon. It was 80 and there was bright sun (this weather, thankfully, continued the whole week--it was absolutely gorgeous), so it didn't take long for me to decide "fuck the shirt." I tossed my backpack on and headed back to my tent.

And THIS is where it got even stranger. As I hiked the 10-minutes back to my tent, I found myself completely uncomfortable with my (half-)nekkidness, something I'd never expected. The reason was that my ears had turned into radar and kept seeking out the deviant catcall, the masculine heckle from the crowd, my eyes were downcast to avoid what I expected to be the silent disdain of other females walking around who were judging the fact that I was "scantily clad." My body was literally tensed up and felt like the frazzled tip of an electrical wire because of this. It was something I had definitely not expected, something I didn't even realize was that ingrained in me. And yet it was.

Tits=sex.

That's how the equation goes in our culture. So I felt kinda slutty trekking around topless. I felt like I was DESERVING of some random heckle or catcall dropped on me from the crowd.

I point no fingers of blame, hold no one gender accountable for this--it's just part of our culture. We equate nudity with sex, with the forbidden, with the "dirty." And, unbeknownst to me, this was ingrained in me far deeper than I had expected.

And yet the catcall never came. Neither did the heckle.

So slowly I grew used to this state of being. The first day or two, I felt self-conscious. I was hyper-aware that I was very bare. And I was hyper-aware of other folks' nakedness. My eyes went straight to the breast whenever a chick walked by. Ingrained.

If you were sitting there, reading the beginning of this blog, thinking about chicks walking around naked and half-naked, thinking there's something deviant about all this, you get my point. Fear of the naked body is SO deeply ingrained in us.

But even by the next day, this self-consciousness was history. I was attending workshops topless, doing yoga with other topless chicks in the middle of bright green fields of grass beneath the midday sun, sitting watching concerts topless, perusing the craft tents, eating dinner with my friends and balancing my dishes against my breasts as I waited in line. It was absolutely and completely liberating. (This amazement might be slightly difficult to understand for a male as the shirt can come off of them in public without even a blink of acknowledgment. But for a woman, this is a strange and unique experience.) It was amazing, AMAZING, to be able to feel the sun warm my breasts for the first time in like 20 years. I mean, the damn things hadn't seen the sun in so long that they weren't even sure how to BURN correctly. They sorta just "blotched" instead.

But damn if I didn't take advantage--all I wore all week was underwear and a sheer crimson-colored wrap around my waist and thighs. It would've been a damn shame to have done otherwise as the weather was gorgeous.

And it was amazing, because by the end of the week, the female body (MY body) had become completely neutralized, completely desexualized. I didn't even bat an eye when some chick with enormous beautiful breasts went traipsing by on her way to get food. By the end of the week, I was back to being four years old again, running around without a shirt on without even a second thought.

And dammit if I didn't learn something from that experience. I mean, these are the hulking forms we trudge around in all day, that we do the best to hide beneath layers of clothes. And why? This is us, in our barest and rawest form. This is us undisguised. Are we THAT afraid of ourselves?

* * * * * * *

Object

Inspired by the Michigan
Womyn's Music Festival

Never having felt at one with the earth,
Never having felt at ease among men,
I spend this week baring breasts to the sun.
The first day, I walk nervously like Eve
outside the Garden, dodging cat-calls and
biting back at fingers flat as whistles
that once fed her. But these breasts are no more
than elbows, elicit no stares; just sit
and cradle the light the sun's tipped upon
them. My spirit hardens like a bare fist.
This is the first time my breasts have felt sun
since childhood, nipples cracked open like dark
meaty chestnuts beneath the mid-day glare.
I am pleased. Each woman is fruit and not
just a seed. It's no wonder we have been
the object of so many poems. And yet

by mid-week, this fierce fruit is burning. I
half-want this safe-space to be no longer
safe. I want to be fruit cracked open on
wet tongue. By the end of this week, I want
teeth sunken in me and I want to be
harvested under some stranger's rough stare.
Despite sun, I want to be the other
reason we've been the object of so many poems.
___________
©2004 LS



Some links to some beautiful nude artwork:

Egon Schiele

Almond Chu

Spencer Tunick

Get nekkid for art! I am!
Spencer Tunick comes to Cleveland.

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Random Songs That I've Been Told Remind People of Me

"Gravel"--Ani Difranco;
"School Night"--Ani D.;
"Bizarre Love Triangle"--Frente;
"Add It Up"--Violent Femmes;
"If He Tries Anything"--Ani D.;
"Video"--India Arie;
"Bad Reputation"--Joan Jett;
"China Cat Sunflower"--Grateful Dead;
"Satellites"--Rickie Lee Jones;
"Loser"--Beck;
"Red Dirt Girl"--Emmylou Harris;
"32 Flavors"--Ani D.;
"Oh Sister"--Dan Bern;
"In the Aeroplane Over the Sea"--Neutral Milk Hotel;
"Not a Pretty Girl"--Ani D.;
"This is to Mother You"--Sinead O'Connor;
"Rainbow Connection"--Kermit the Frog;
"Creep"--Radiohead;
"Sylvia Plath"--Ryan Adams;
"Circle of Friends"--Edie Brickell;
"Silent Lucidity"--Queensryche;
"Don't Give Up"--Peter Gabriel;
"Take It With Me When I Go"--Tom Waits;
"Comfortably Numb"--Pink Floyd;
"Blister in the Sun"--Violent Femmes;
"In Your Eyes"--Peter Gabriel;
"Clocks"--Coldplay;
"Blame it on the Rain"--Milli Vanilli;
"Sara"--Starship;
"Idiotheque"--Radiohead;
"Nothing Compares 2 U"--Sinead O'Connor;
"Shy"--Ani D.;
"Jackie Wilson Said (I'm In Heaven When You Smile)"--Van Morrison;
"We Are Going to Be Friends"--White Stripes.

Random song that has been written about me:
Oh yes, I'm THATpopular...

"People say that she is evil
but perhaps just
misunderstood
like the dung beetle

I am so funny
I am so funny
I am so funny
Lauren is not funny

and kind of smells weird
But..
I am so funny

People say that she is a dork
doesn't eat meat
throws up on pork
maybe it's true
maybe they're right
but give her some beer
and she's your friend all night

I am so funny
I am so funny
I am so funny
Lauren is not funny

and kind of smells weird
But..
I am so funny

I..
am...
funny...
(So she eats paste, didn't you at her age? mental age, that is..)
I..
am..
funny..."

--Courtesy of the great and bean-like Patrick Coleff

Feel free to add your own songs to this list in my comment section!

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Random immature comment: Chuckholes SUCK!

Random & strange bodily features I possess: A nose clit, a bright yellow spot in the white of my left eye, what appears to ALMOST be a vestigial tail (but is more of a vestigial BUMP), what would be two weirdie front teeth were they not capped, powerful chicken toes, peanut-sized bladder.

Random book I am reading: Midwives by Chris Bohjalian.

Random bit of randomness: Ever notice that the things you ruminate about as you're trying to fall asleep seem so much deeper and more significant and complex than they do when you wake up the next morning?

Random book selections from previous blog:

The Prophet--Kahlil Gibran;

Song of Solomon--Toni Morrison;

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius--Dave Eggers;

Song--Brigit Pegeen Kelly;

Troubled Lovers in History--Albert Goldbarth;

One Fish Two Fish--Dr. Seuss;

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man--James Joyce;

The Fountainhead--Ayn Rand;

Lullabye--Chuck Palahniuk (which in fact isn't my favorite of his books but was the only one on my bookshelf--alas);

Catcher in the Rye--J.D. Salinger;

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter--Carson McCullers;

Because They Wanted to--Mary Gaitskill;

Where the Sidewalk Ends--Shel Silverstein.

Random question for the day: What's your all-time favorite book?

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