Things I Did This Weekend

• Burnt a cigarette hole straight through the crotch of my polyester pants, realizing that I should be very thankful that they didn't go completely up in flames.



• Watched a little kid chow down on dog-treats from the bulk section of the pet store I was at. While his parents watched.



• Boozed it up with a bunch of crazy-cool vegans.



• Had dorky boys try to rescue me from the rain on my way home from a bar with their cab and then leave me a dorky message on my machine to make sure I got home safely and wasn't feministically offended by their attempts at chivalry.



• Had a friend tell me that he thought of me while doing walking-meditation on a retreat because, as they very slowly walked across the park, he suddenly realized that they looked like a weird bunch of zombies.



• Stared at a disturbingly muscle-bound, chest-shaven club-dude and fake-lesbians groping each other for way longer than I would've liked. (If that isn't a testament to how much I love you, Ms. Mo, I don't know WHAT is. Heh heh.)



• Pressed knees with a friend in a dark movie theater.



• Walked around all Saturday with a giant, red nametag-hickey on my chest because apparently you should never ever put a nametag directly on your skin, even if your intention was to not draw attention to your boob.



• Realized that asking the bike co-op guy about why there are bike-seats with a cut-out in the middle of them was the worst question ever as it took him about 5 minutes to figure out how to nicely say that it makes your lady- and man-junk sit more comfortably.



• Listened to a FANTASTIC guitar player bust-out a fantastic cover of Joanna Newsom's "Clam, Crab, Cockle, Cowrie."

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Lindy Loo's Faith in the XY Chromosome is Restored

I've gotta say, my faith in the male gender had been starting to wane over the past couple months, and I would occasionally find myself blurting out sentences beginning with "Boys are such fucking..." and usually ending with "idiots" or "retards" or "dumb-ass motherfuckers," despite the fact that I hate hate hate gender-stereotyping.

But then, within the course of two weeks, I met *three* separate guys that, if I were to start a Snuggly, Cheek-pinching, Squishy-Goodness Harem of Men (perhaps also with the occasional grape-feeding and doing it), they would SO be the first three members.

In one fell swoop, they have managed to restore my faith in the XY chromosome with their fierce delicious energy.

And although I don't think any of them read this blog, if they do: bless your motherf-ing hearts. I guess that's what I'm trying to say.

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I'm not a big fan of waking up in the wee hours of the morn, but I must admit: 5am is a beautifully meditative time of day, even when the reason you're bumping into the day that early is that you were torn out of sleep because of a groggy wine headache and the sudden ability to breathe out of only one nostril, your cat has left an ineradicable spot of stank assery on your clean sheets just inches from where your head rests which (for some reason--perhaps to truly verify its stank-asseriness) you keep sniffing with your one good nostril and then gagging at, and either the world's most ridiculous bird or Old Guy Neighbor is shouting "Chee chee chee" into the mutable mystical morn.

And that says something. That really says something.

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New Favorite Google Search That Brought Someone to This Blog

"hurt by defective vacumcleaner"

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Summer Solstice, New York City

By the end of the longest day of the year he could not stand it,
he went up the iron stairs through the roof of the building
and over the soft, tarry surface
to the edge, put one leg over the complex green tin cornice
and said if they came a step closer that was it.
Then the huge machinery of the earth began to work for his life,
the cops came in their suits blue-grey as the sky on a cloudy evening,
and one put on a bullet-proof vest, a
black shell around his own life,
life of his children’s father, in case
the man was armed, and one, slung with a
rope like the sign of his bounden duty,
came up out of a hole in the top of the neighboring building
like the gold hole they say is in the top of the head,
and began to lurk toward the man who wanted to die.
The tallest cop approached him directly,
softly, slowly, talking to him, talking, talking,
while the man’s leg hung over the lip of the next world
and the crowd gathered in the street, silent, and the
hairy net with its implacable grid was
unfolded near the curb and spread out and
stretched as the sheet is prepared to receive at a birth.
Then they all came a little closer
where he squatted nest to his death, his shirt
glowing its milky glow like something
growing in a dish at night in the dark in a lab and then
everything stopped
as his body jerked and he
stepped down from the parapet and went toward them
and they closed on him, I thought they were going to
beat him up, as a mother whose child has been
lost will scream at the child when it’s found, they
took him by the arms and held him up and
leaned him against the wall of the chimney and the
tall cop lit a cigarette
in his own mouth, and gave it to him, and
then they all lit cigarettes, and the
red, glowing ends burned like the
tiny campfires we lit at night
back at the beginning of the world.

--Sharon Olds

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The Day of Reckoning

• 24-hours of nothing but granola bars to eat.



• Consequently, nightmares of 100-foot high stacks of pizza tumbling down all around me into inedible ruin.



• Also a dream that I kissed Tom Waits but was sorely disappointed (and a little grossed out) because he had the most disgustingly dry, cracked, flaky lips ever.



• Oil light coming on RIGHT as I leave for my two+ hour drive. Mild hysteria, reassured by my mechanic.



• Oil light does not come back on 'til I am 2+ hours from home. Goes off every 10 minutes or so the whole rest of the trip, complete with blinking light and ear-piercing alarm noise.



• Pop explodes all over my crotch within the first 10 minutes of driving. Spend the next 2+ hours with squishy underpants, certain that there will be tiny bottles of Dr. Pepper blossoming within the damp and yeasty recesses of my vagina.


• Vegan pizza place not open.



• Forget pajamas.



• Apparently Dr. Pepper smells like piss when it soaks into your shorts. Spend 10 minutes trying to scrub piss-smell out of shorts with body-wash in hotel sink since they are the only pants I brought. Drape crotch of shorts over hotel fan to dry.



• Hotel bathroom smells inexplicably like urine and has a floor that sticks to my feet as though coated in urine. Shower also creaks everytime I move and I am convinced I will fall through into the depths of the earth while butt-nekkid.



• Break my no-texting ban just to hear reassuring words from a couple folks and keep myself from crying.



• Wake up every 1/2 an hour all night.



• Fully aware of my luck with cars, I leave the hotel an hour early (for a ten-minute drive) in order to factor in possible break-down time. (So sad that I live my life in constant preparation for being stranded in the middle of some freeway.) Rip the cab-page of the phone book out and fold it up into my wallet, just in case.



• Realize I only have $.90 left on my cellphone. Spend 20 minutes trying to figure out how to put more money on it in case I break down and need it.



• Exit is closed and we received no warning. Spend 15 extra minutes driving around through shady neighborhoods, trying to find where I'm supposed to be, oil light going off all the while.



• Strange bout of agorophobia--the place is so very large, and there are so many people, that I have to stare at my table so as not to hyperventilate.



• Blood sugar crashes from eating nothing but granola bars. Spend fricking $2 on the world's tiniest bottle of apple juice.



• Ridiculous amounts of cigarettes.



• Gluconeogenesis or glycolisis? Gluconeogenesis or glycolisis?



• Ankylosis or arthritis? Ankylosis or arthritis?
  
  
• Is it really POSSIBLE that the nose is not technically INVOLVED in respiration? Strangely, I think this may be the case.



• Oil light and piercing alarm noise go off every 10 minutes the whole way home.



• Hysterical exhaustion.

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Tomorrow is the Day of Reckoning.

*Stomach flip-flopping from nerves*

So even if you don't know what the hell the Day of Reckoning entails, please, dear god (and goddesses), send your best brain waves and positive thoughts in my direction.

Catch you all on Wednesday.

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These past two weeks have pleased me in a way that I haven't been pleased in a really long time.

Hell yes to that.

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Apparently Old Guy Neighbor refers to "menstruation" as "you know... P.I.," which, no, I don't know, but which makes me think of my period as a little man in a fedora who strolls out from between my legs once a month, chain-smoking cigarettes, talking fast, and referring to women as "dames." All of which I actually kind of like.

*And please do not ask why we were talking about menstruation. Because then I'd have to also explain why we were talking about bras, underpants, and other ladies' intimates. And trust me, you don't want to go there.

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Ouch.

I have a large variety of notebooks/envelopes/napkins/cigarette packs strewn around my house. And in these notebooks/envelopes/napkins/cigarette packs, I've scribbled out a ridiculous variety of random facts and/or solitary lines of poetry over the years. I love to occasionally stumble across factual tidbits I'd long since forgotten about or lines of poetry that are so far removed from the present that they appear to have been sneakily written into my notebook by someone else. I think part of the reason I adore Tom Waits, Albert Goldbarth, and Chuck Palahniuk so much is that they share my fascination with the weirdnesses of the world and stuff their works and/or performances with lovely little fascinating little factoids.

Yesterday, while frustratingly trying to track down a piece of paper upon which I'd hastily scratched the final gut-clenching lines of a poem I was working on, I stumbled across some random facts I had written down perhaps a year or two ago.

My favorite, hastily scratched between a couple random lines of poetry:

The female hyena gives birth to her babies out of her clitoris.

Upon reading this, I felt an intense regret swell up inside me for not having blessed you with such important information sooner.

Mea culpa.

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Summer in the City...

The summer heat waves always make me feel more at one with my neighborhood. They seem to draw an unparallelled sense of camaraderie out of people--the heat seems to lend a universality to everything, a sense that "we're all in this together." And I dig it. This weekend was one such case in point. I spent it inhabiting bar patios and getting to know folks that were friends of friends, talking about real estate and vintage household items and crazy tales in Spanish. I sat out in a certain adorable (and now engaged) couple's backyard as a redemptive breeze swirled the early-day's heat away, watching Dazed and Confused on their garage as the midnight hour rolled in. I bumped into a new acquaintance while trying to extract myself from a crowded corner-store, and sweatily engaged in an awkward dance and conversation with him as I tried to get out. I chatted up a knuckly old man who told me how his daughter had just graduated with a degree as an electrician. I mooned over the perfect moments of Lost in Translation with a close friend while gorging on Fritos. I conversed about the gloriousness that is bagels with a friendly old woman in the middle of the street. I humidly swirled around the neighborhood garage sale, getting chatted up by people I'm just starting to get to know, yoga instructors from previous blog entries, my mechanic, poets, immediate neighbors that I've seen enough times to bestow nicknames upon and finally have been officially introduced to. I spontaneously accepted a random coffee-shop invitation to the movies and spent a couple hours craning my neck in the front row of the movie theater, basking in the a/c while watching a heavy (but damn good) film about counterfeiters in a concentration camp and stifling a burst or two of inappropriate laughter at the old folks behind us who felt the need to narrate the more obvious events of the movie (i.e. "He just killed himself!"). I rode down streets I'd never taken before, chatting about poetry and smoking cigarettes while songs from converted LPs rolled their notes warmly around me. I overheatedly ate a breakfast and then sprawled out in the shade with visiting sibs that I don't see often enough. And I snuck awkwardly into secret basement-invitations to watch experimental bands vibrate my throat with their notes in converted living spaces. So although I am looking forward to the temperature topping out at only 79 tomorrow, I've gotta say: it was a damn good heat-wave.

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There's something wonderfully intimate about sharing hits off a cigarette with someone you've only just met. I've never had reason to notice before, but strangely, it's got the ring of the lingering glance or the electricity of hand accidentally brushing against bare arm. I guess communal saliva'll do that.

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Seriously, Mother Nature: A pimple ON MY KNEE?? Have you nothing better to do?

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The other day, my mechanic hugged me in the middle of the street. And, had he been a hot love-interest, and had I been about to get into my car to drive to the airport to fly off to my new home in Mozambique, and had he sprinted into the street to clutch me close one last time, or just to suck face a little, it might've been a beautiful moment. But since that's not the way my life typically runs its course, the woman who lives across the street--who has the pitbull with weird growths on its face--sorta just looked at us peculiarly and then we almost got hit by a pick-up.

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RIP: Texting

So just like that, I've decided to stop texting. What can I say? I'm fickle when it comes to my love of technology. And I miss the good ol' days, where people just talked to people. Or didn't talk. You know what I'm saying?

So in honor of the demise of my short-lived texting love-affair, I bring you the list of MY WORDS from my cell phone--words that I apparently thought were worthy enough of adding to the Rapid Entry dictionary feature on my phone. (The list would be much longer if my phone hadn't broken about a month ago.)

Anyways, enjoy. And RIP Lindy Loo Texting. *Making the sign of the cross and tossing a rose upon its grave*

MY WORDS

• back-up


• bajingo


• aha


• chung


• Damn


• Fuck


• handclaps


• hessler


• godawful


• Hotdogs


• groundhog


• lemme


• Luv


• nature's


• Nevermind


• Saran


• ripoff


• Shush


• Soulmates


• sunscreen


• Uck


• tantraed


• veggie


• Thanks


• VW


• wouldn't've


• wtf

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Dear Chuck Palahniuk,

You know I secretly adore you, despite the fact that I always feel like I've been coated in a thin film of dirt and boogers everytime I read one of your books. I even adore you despite the fact that every once in a while that short story you wrote about the dude and the pool-drain randomly pops into my head and my asshole instinctively clenches so tight you couldn't get the thinnest of threads up there if your life depended on it, and I have to thinkthinkthink of 1501 pretty things to gouge the thought of pool-drains and intestines out of my brain. Despite that, I still really do dig your shit. I mean, I know I seriously had doubts about your last book--I almost gave up on it after two pages of your weird narrative-structure. But I DID NOT, and, despite (or maybe because of) the rabies and strange time-travel and weird car chase-scenes and typical Palahniuk booger-picking, it actually ended up being my favorite of your books.

So why must you go write a new book that I'm going to have difficulty reconciling with my feminist sensibilities?

PS. Especially since my 1970's-loving self really digs the cover. *SIGH*

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Wow. Apparently there is such a thing as font-size 0, and it still shows, which to me doesn't seem to be font-size 0 then, but whatever:

You know I secretly adore you, despite the fact that I always feel like I've been coated in a thin film of dirt and boogers everytime I read one of your books. I even adore you despite the fact that every once in a while that short story you wrote about the dude and the pool-drain randomly pops into my head and my asshole instinctively clenches so tight you couldn't get the thinnest of threads up there if your life depended on it, and I have to thinkthinkthink of 1501 pretty things to gouge the thought of pool-drains and intestines out of my brain. Despite that, I still really do dig your shit. I mean, I know I seriously had doubts about your last book--I almost gave up on it after two pages of your weird narrative-structure. But I DID NOT, and, despite (or maybe because of) the rabies and strange time-travel and weird car chase-scenes and typical Palahniuk booger-picking, it actually ended up being my favorite of your books.

So why must you go write a new book that I'm going to have difficult reconciling with my feminist sensibilities?

PS. Especially since my 1970's-loving self really digs the cover. *SIGH*

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How to Tell You're a Feminist, Part 33

In your top bathroom drawer, there is a blow dryer, hairbrush, silicon sex toy, tape measure, and two screwdrivers (Phillip's and flathead).


*Sidenote: If I ever have a band, I must name it The Dusty Buttplugs, because it is a crying shame to go through life knowing that such a band does not exist.

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Gunshots in the Night

...are always slightly disorienting because, when you bolt upright in bed, startled from sound sleep, you're never quite sure whether you actually heard them or not. Add onto that, the fact that Old Guy Neighbor occasionally likes to mutter "If I only had a gun, wooo-eee" when complaining about how his downstairs neighbor is always smoking "the acid," and it makes for one unsettling night's sleep.

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