Things I Learned About Myself This Weekend

1. Apparently I exude good.
   
   How do I know this? Well, Saturday night, while I was out watching some of N/A's friends play at a local bar, a guy came up to me out of the blue, tapped me on the shoulder, and said: "I just wanted to tell you: You exude good."
   
   Truly a nice thing to hear, of course. And strangely, it's not the first time I've had someone I barely know tell me that.
   
   My only wish is that it wouldn't always be a preface to getting hit on.



2. I need touch.
   
   I sometimes forget this. But this weekend reminded me of what a tactile-oriented person I am. I love when people touch, hug, kiss me. Even strangers (as long as it's not inappropriate, obviously). Luckily for me, N/A has a lot of friends who are very touchy-feelie as well, so I always leave hanging out with them feeling a lovely warmth in my bones. Add to that the fact that N/A's one friend D gives THE best hugs and I'm in pure bliss. Seriously: I've shared very minimal conversations with D, but everytime I see him, he gives me a hug--and not just the brief-awkward hug of folks who barely know each other, but the warmest most genuine hug I've ever experienced... the kind you just wanna curl up in and live inside of. I dig him. He may truly be the sincerest, most genuine, beautifully gentle person I've ever had the joy of meeting. And it's just nice to know that he exists.



3. I dream WAY too much about actors from That 70's Show.

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A Fitting 1,000th Post

Please help me and Ms. Mo settle this dispute.

The question is not which of the two is more difficult, but which of the two is worse on someone's neck if they have neck-problems.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd... GO!

Quizzes by Quibblo.com

(You may provide an argument for your answer in my comments)

(Thank you, and good day)

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Fuck the Computer Room, I Want the Baby!

I'm sure you could get a good penny for it on the blackmarket for SURE!

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Goddamn.

Sitting all day with correct posture after you've been sitting incorrectly for so long is fricking TIRING.

And it's also causing my pants to bunch up in such a way that they're giving me what I can only term as a "medically-necessary soccer-mom camel-toe."

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Wait. What?!?

Yes, I'm probably a wee bit behind the times, but seriously:

THIS is what Joaquin Phoenix gave up acting for?




My grandma has more energy and spunk.

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Jesus, This Album is Gorgeous

Dark Was The Night (Red Hot Co...

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And Subconscious Says: Time to Get Back to the Writing, Lindy Loo

Apparently sleeping with no pillow on a windy night can cause you to dream that you are a call-girl.

More interesting is the fact that in the dream, you will feel a mutual romantic connection with one of your male clientele, and as he leaves, he will fumble to write down his phone number for you on what appears to be address labels. As he hands it to you and turns to leave (this is the symbolic part--wait for it, wait for it), he will pause for a moment to tell you, with a warm grin, "Btw: My real name is Art."

BLAM! How's that for an overtly symbolic dream?!?

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Another Item from My Big Bag o' Dork

I used to think this was a crazy bad-ass song when I was in, like, middle school--real intense and powerful:



Heard a remake of it this weekend in a preview for the Lost Boys sequel, and I laughed out loud.

I may have been a smart child, but I definitely did not have very refined taste in music.

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*For those of you unfamiliar, the song's from Lost Boys.

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Notes From This Weekend

You wouldn't think that a misaligned spine would affect your finesse when it comes to fucking, but APPARENTLY IT DOES! Hurray for adjustments!

It is really f-ing challenging to date someone on the complete opposite time-schedule as you with everything.

I *will* convince Peppermint to start a business with me. And/or make her my love-slave. The choice is yours, P. *Batting my eyelashes in case she's reading*

I still think it's fairly possible that Chiroman would've slept with me if we'd met under entirely different circumstances. And/or become a good platonic friend. And/or a) and b).

Race is tricky to discuss. For obvious reasons. But also because there's almost always double-meaning in every statement uttered.

My So-Called Life was a really good show.

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Taxicab Confessions

I forget what N/A and I were talking about the other day, but the conversation ended with his question:

"Yeah, but you know where Bangladesh is on a map though..."

And my response:

"Um, no. Actually I don't."

You see, I'm part of that pathetically large population of Americans that can't find Iraq on a map. I couldn't give you a set of dates as to when WWII took place (I will below but only after having looked it up). You could give me the name of a significant historical figure, and there's probably like a 90% chance I couldn't tell you what their deal is. I don't remember the details about the composition of the Supreme Court.

Essentially, I'm the person who keeps quiet and nods through most conversations concerning history, geography, or politics and prays they don't get cornered with a question about something that they really should fucking know but don't.

And it drives me nuts.

'Cause I'm not a dummi. I still remember that the basic functional unit of the kidney is the nephron. I read constantly, sometimes as much as a couple books a week. I've spent 8 years in post-high-school studies. I can argue folks under the fucking rug when faced with a philosophical debate.

And yet, when it comes to history/geography/politics, I am a fucking idiot.

I've been trying to figure out why that is. Because every once in a while, I vow to brush up on all of the above because I feel it is my duty as a human being with opinions to do so. And yet every time: failure.

I'm trying once again by reading Howard Zinn's A People's History of American Empire, and I will say: I'm enjoying it. Probably 'cause it's in graphic novel form, and I can be like: Ooooh, fun pictures next to names of people that I will have forgotten within 24 hours. But still: remembering people's names and time periods eludes me. And I pretty much constantly have to reread sections as my brain starts to drift off towards other things, turning details about, say, the Pullman strike into a mushy blah blah blah railroads diatribe.

And I really want to know WHY. Because I can't figure out why my brain doesn't retain these things while everyone else's seems to. And I can't figure out why my brain doesn't retain these things when it is fiendishly good at retaining a slew of other things. And I can't figure out why it can't even just stay FOCUSED on them when I read about them.

So yesterday night, I was thinking about it some. And I realized: it's not anything new, and it's really not specific to "Social Studies." I've always sucked when it comes to remembering ANY a) names, b) places, and c) dates.

I have a BA in English & Philosophy, an MA in English, and an Associate's Degree in massage therapy, but I could not in a million years tell you what was the span of years that covered the Romantics. Who was the first philosopher that came up with the idea of utilitarianism? Not a clue. Which muscles compose the hamstrings? I could tell you, but it would take me a few minutes of picking my brain for recall.

Why is that?

Well: 'cause (please do not punch me) who cares really?

I mean, last night, I reached the following conclusion. And I'm fluctuating between whether or not I'm just making excuses, and whether this is a legit point (so chances are, it probably rests somewhere between the two), but I think the reason is this:

I like patterns. I love being able to figure out a pattern in the things I do. The world is composed of patterns.

The thing with patterns is that it's not so much the specific that is significant in it. It's that the specific fits in as part of the whole.

When you think of pi, you don't get all juiced out and gaspy over the digit 4. You're not like, HOLY CRAP, LOOK AT THAT 4! THAT 4 IS SO SIGNIFICANT! AND THERE IT IS AGAIN, RIGHT THERE! No. You're like, Check this out: these numbers are building in such a way that you'd THINK there'd be a pattern, but there's not. The 4 is just part of the organized chaos that is pi. On its own, really, it's no more significant than 3 or 29.

And I like that.

[I'm realizing retrospectively that perhaps pi wasn't the best example to use there since it's not actually a pattern but a lack thereof. And yet: the same rule applies, so: suck it.]

In all my studies in literature or philosophy, it's the patterns I'm attracted to. Not the names or dates.

Reading a book with a critical eye requires picking up on patterns.

Learning philosophy requires picking up on patterns.

Understanding how the body works requires picking up on patterns.

In all these cases, really: names and dates are superfluous.

Perhaps that is a horrible thing to say because it basically undercuts everyone's sense of their own significance.

But in the big picture that is History: it's true.

Knowing that WWII spans the years 1939 to 1945 really is superfluous. Knowing that the name of the U.S. president during this time period was Roosevelt is about as useful as sticking your dick in a hole in the wall.

If I want to go about breaking the chains of history, neither of these things is useful for shit.

I mean, I hate to tell you, but the details of you aren't important. Your impact on the world may be. But really, whether you existed in the 1970s or your name was J.J. LeMew, it makes no fucking difference really.

Because really, it's the patterns that are important. And the patterns of history are such:

Powerful White Men (aka: The Population in the Majority) manipulate/colonialize/exploit/kill the Other. The Other tries to stop the Powerful White Men (aka: The Population in the Majority) in their tracks.

And really, and you can kick my ass for saying so, that's all you need to know.

Do I wish I knew the details better? Yes. I do.

Will I slip fucking ex-lax in your beer if (now knowing this) you corner me with a question in public that exposes my horrifying ignorance about history to all those present? Fuck yeah.

But really, when it comes down to it, it doesn't matter if it's us fiddling in Iraq or the Battle of Wounded Knee or the construction of the Panama Canal--it's the same story.

And I think that's why I have a hard time retaining any of it.

Names and dates are interchangeable. Specificities are irrelevant.

As for geography: Well--with that one, I just suck.

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Song That's Been F-ing Stuck in My Head Since I Woke Up This Morning:

LISTEN

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Dear Mr. Stewart

Apparently every 1 to 3 years, I must point you, dear readers, to the music of Alec Stewart.

And as I'm just about due again, and as I just saw him play last night with Ms. Maura Rogers (whom you should also check out, dammit), consider this me, pointing.

So:

Go, now!

Listen to Alec Stewart's music here!


Watch him live:



I swear to god, he's one of the few musicians I've heard live where I spend most of the set feeling like I'm gonna ball--his songs (particularly the slow ones) move me in inexplicable ways.

So thank you, Mr. Stewart. I wish I could keep you in my pocket to croon for me.

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Dammit. My head is falling off again, and IT'S NOT GOOD.

You may think I'm kidding, but literally: when my neck gets too tight, it pulls one of my vertebra off another up there, so they're no longer sitting right on top of each other. Consequently, all the muscles up there are tight as guitar strings, struggling to hang onto my skull for dear life. My head is literally falling off. It's disconcerting, as are the occasional ensuing feelings of vertigo.

I swear to god, I am going to kidnap Chiro-Man and make him my chiro-slave, wife or no. 'Cause 90 minutes of driving + $40 for 10 mins of adjusting is JUST NOT RIGHT.

I just have to get the ok from N/A first. I'm thinking that keeping a man ball-gagged in my bathroom closet without warning him first probably won't go over well.

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I often overlook the little things, forget the impact of them, how they compose this great big lovely whole that I inhabit. It's nice to be reminded once in a while to look at them differently, with a bit more weight.

At N/A's show this weekend I was reminded. In the hustle and bustle of the bar, I borrowed $4 off of him for the cover-charge. Realizing I only needed $3, I breezed back over to him and handed him $1 back, muttering something not even worth noting about the change. A fleeting exchange, but right after, I noticed someone I'd been friends with a handful of years ago (and had a falling out with) standing just a few feet away. He was watching us with obvious surprise--both as an acquaintance of N/A (one that is presumably unaware of the fact that we are dating) and as an ex-friend of mine. I could see the wheels turning in his head.

His presence suddenly made this simple exchange--me leaning in towards N/A, handing him $1, shouting something close to his ear so he could hear me--EXTRAORDINAIRILY intimate, as though I had warmly tipped my lips to his or touched the small of his back with my fingertips. I thought about what it must seem like to this third party, who at that point probably didn't even know that N/A and I even KNOW each other, and realized how bountiful and weighty such a slight moment could be to someone else. How you could read history in it. How something so little could really be so powerful.

The rest of the night, N/A was flitting about, watching the acts and talking to friends, while I chilled out on the sideline. Occasionally I would catch this fellow glimpsing over at me or us, and I could tell he was trying fiendishly to pick up on what that small exchange had meant.

The point is: the text is the text, unchanging. But how we read it can be amazingly different from person to person. And sometimes it is good to have someone there to tip your perspective on its head. Sometimes it's good to be reminded that--really--this tiny exchange IS buoyed with a great weight and a developing history that perhaps we haven't been reading closely enough.

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Lately, when I sneeze at work, I have a fear that I'm also going to fart simultaneously.

Don't know why.

But just wanted to share.

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Things I'm Not Real Fond of Today

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Dangerous Angels

I used to be a voracious reader as a little kid. I'm sure this comes as no surprise to most of you. One of the things I most looked forward to was roaming the aisles at the library and coming home with a heavy pile of books I'd spend hours reading.

So reading YA books now as an adult is something I love as well--it reminds me of the open-minded enthusiasm with which I engaged books when I was younger.

Books were my teachers, my hip older sister. They taught me things I never knew--not just factual things, about planets or insects. But about people and how we live.

When I was younger, there were many book-series geared at young adults that were kind of like little "after-school specials," books about teen pregnancy, having sex, dating, race issues, disabilities, etc. And--albeit not grand in number--there were books about teens falling in love with other teens of the same sex. None of these books were fantastically written by any means. But they were there to say, Hey: these things happen. This is what goes on. Be aware. We're telling you the things your parents might not, so listen. Like I said: they were kind of like hip older sisters.

It's because of these books that I never even blinked an eye at the thought of girls loving girls or boys loving boys. It was never a subject I'd been introduced to prior to reading about it in a book, not something I'd ever given thought to because--as a child--I didn't have reason to. My world as a child (like most people's) was heteronormative. My family knew no one who was gay, so the subject never came up. Boys loved girls. Girls loved boys. That's the way I understood these things, simply because I had no reason to think otherwise. (Just like, as a child, you don't think about sex until it's finally brought to your attention. Until then, it doesn't exist.)

I remember very distinctly reading this book about a girl falling in love with her best friend. I don't remember too many details about it now, but I do remember that the girls were kind of weird and alternative, and that they used to hang out in a graveyard together. I think one of the more memorable moments of the book was when one girl takes a photo of the two of them laying together on a grave. And I remember very distinctly thinking, these girls are me. And understanding them.

The thing is, I'm not gay. But I understood them. As clean-slated children, we have an amazing capacity for empathy. They were weird. They didn't fit in. They were children. They were me. I understood this. And the girls loved one another. Easy enough. Made sense to me. I moved on. Simple as that.

Consequently, homosexuality's not an issue I ever found myself morally conflicted about growing up, and I do think it was because of how the subject was introduced to me--not with the nervous uncomfortable explanation of parents, not with hate-slurs from fellow-students, not with whispers and pointed fingers, none of that. I read it in a book from a series of book that said: Hey, this is the way things are. These teenagers (pregnant, gay, black, disabled) have the capacity to be you and you them.

Because of this, I was able to bestow the same nonchalant understanding on my younger sibs as well. And for that I am thankful. I still distinctly remember being cooped up in a tent with my sisters and my mother, talking before bed, and having a long conversation about homosexuality. And I remember my sisters being quiet but wide-eyed, listening listening listening and absorbing absorbing absorbing.

Children's capacity for understanding is amazing. They ask a billion questions, but not out of skepticism. They just want to know. They want to understand. They haven't yet hit a brick wall with how they read and interpret their world. They are a universe expanding.

Kids don't see anything as abnormal. Until you tell them it is.

I mean, it's almost obvious to the point of not warranting comment, but they're learning the world, they're developing values, and nothing is set yet. They are creating themselves. They accept things with an ease that is enviable to us as adults. We worry so much about whether or not they'll understand the things we explain to them. But in the same way that they accept that Saturn has a ring around it or that 2+2=4, they accept these things.

Unless, that is, someone beats us to the punch--until the boy in the schoolyard shouts Faggot and in that one simple word they are told: This is wrong.

Once that's said, it's over. Everything that would've been easy will now need to be worked at double-time, triple-time. It's easier to teach than to correct. Because the first thing a child hears of something is the one that sticks with them, in whatever capacity.

We need to beat them to the punch.

Where am I going with all this? I'm not quite sure.

I just finished up the Weetzie Bat series yesterday, and I was just so touched by the final book--Baby Be-Bop--a story about a young gay boy coming to terms with his sexuality. And I ached the whole time I read it because I was thinking to myself how much it would mean for a young gay boy to have this to read while struggling. And how so few will.

So I guess what I'm saying is, Let your kids read. Anything. Everything. Don't think certain things are out of their bounds or that they won't understand. They will.

Speak to your kids. About anything. Everything.

'Cause if you don't, someone else surely will.

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Anyone Wanna Offer Me Free Sound-Proofing? Deargodplease?

The house I live in has pretty much no sound-proofing between my apartment and the front neighbor's apartment.

Consequently, I've heard... 2 out of my 3 neighbor's orgasms at some point in time. And not like "putting your ear up against the wall in order to really hear it" orgasm. I can hear them sneeze in their apartment with perfect clarity. So you can only imagine. They basically sound like they are fucking ON MY LAP.

This fact has led me to the occasional confusion: I once groggily thought a peeping tom was jerking off outside my (2nd floor) window because of an early-morning session. I gave a previous downstairs neighbor a bit of an orgasm-complex after keeping a running-tally of overheard orgasms on this blog a few years back. And one time, I was mid-coitus with a past boyfriend, AND WE HEARD THE FRONT NEIGHBORS START UP WHILE WE WERE IN THE MIDDLE OF DOING IT. We froze like deer in headlights, clearly both having arrived at the same thought simultaneously: our doing it made THEM wanna do it. Which is just kind of ew.

Today: An orgasm update.

The trust-fund babies now living up front apparently fuck like trust-fund bunnies.

And I didn't realize that they actually HAD any sex for a long time, mainly because there is no differentiation between a) Female Trust-Fund Bunny's orgasm-noise, and b) Female Trust-Fund Bunny's brow-beating of boyfriend/random bratty hollering noises.

So all the time that I thought she was doing her annoying berating and brow-beating and/or random shouts at her boyfriend, she could've actually been having sex. And the times I now think she is having sex, she could conceivably just be brow-beating. Which is all sorts of confusing.

Either which way, she kind of sounds like Hot Girl with a Bad Laugh from Family Guy:



Imagine sexing up that laugh, or imagine IMAGINING sexing up that laugh, and you'll understand my pain.

Male Trust-Fund Bunny is surely gonna be in need of therapy some point soon.

As will I. As will I.

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My Favorite Iggy Pop song EVER

God bless you, Lala--you are the first mp3 site of many many many I've desperately searched through to actually HAVE this song...

Fuckin' Alone (Explicit) - Igg...

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Jumping Sharks is Its Own Kind of Fun

I wish I was a boy for the sole reason that boys rock tattoos in ways infinitely hotter than girls.

Girls, of course, can also rock a tattoo.

But boys rock them harder. Especially in the realm of chest-tattoos.

A girl with an off-centered pec/breast tattoo automatically rings of "middle-aged mother of two who got drunk one night while still in her 20s and was coerced into getting a tattoo by her Harley-riding boyfriend."

But I can think of nothing hotter than a boy with a nice pec tattoo.

Case in point is Adam Goldberg.

I spent most of this movie RIDICULOUSLY envious of his tattoos and his consequent smoking hotness.

(Be forewarned: This is the end of the movie 2 Days in Paris, so if you've never seen it, you may not wanna watch, except for a second or two to check out tatt-hotness.)

PS: I just realized that I think there may be wang in here. So: probably NSFW.




I never thought Adam Goldberg was remotely hot, what with his perpetually furrowed brow and angry twitchiness, but as soon as I saw his pec tattoo, I was like: BLAM. HOT.

The same pectoral-tattoo hypnotism was also clearly to blame for my brief but lewd involvements with a Catholic, meat-eating, action-movie-watching construction-worker who got mad at me once for doing an impersonation of the Virgin Mary. There's no other explanation.

What it must be like to have that kind of tattoo power.

*Wistful sigh*





Unrelatedly: My boyfriend is wonderful.*



And now a slightly uninteresting picture of snow:




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*Sorry, Boyfriend. This is not being said for your benefit or even sincerely. Though it's true. Oh yes.

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Subconscious, You Have Failed Me!

I dreamt about Jason Segel last night.

When I woke up, in my half-grog state I thought to myself: you must remember to blog about this dream 'cause it's a good one.

When I woke up again, I had no recollection of what I had dreamt.

But I do distinctly recall the smell and warmth of Segel-skin.

PLEASEOHPLEASEOHPLEASECOMEBACKTOME

Sincerely,
Lindy

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Harem Death-Match

I was going to add Jeffrey Dean Morgan (who played the Comedian in Watchmen) to my Harem List this morning, until I realized that perhaps the only reason that I think he's hot is that he kind of looks like Javier Bardem if Javier Bardem wasn't Javier Bardem.

No?







So instead I'm adding a much overdue Jason Segel.






Not as Javier Bardemish, but still worthy for sure.

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What I Did This Weekend, In Brief

• Accidentally received $16-worth of chocolate chips for free. Felt slightly guilty but got over it.



• Saw the very first (midnight) showing of Watchmen with the feller.



• Had old guy neighbor ask me how I stay so trim and then offer me a paint-by-number kit of a fox.

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I try not to cross-post between this blog and my vegan blog because 1) some of you have no interest in vegan-related shit, and 2) those of you who do already read it.

BUT

this is well worth noting...

It was brought to my attention earlier this morning that my vegan food blog is the #2 (no pun intended) website that pops up when you google “ass tubes.”

Take that, bitches!

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A Vile-Fudge Sundae with Vileness on Top

So this past month, N/A forced me to read the vilest book I've EVER read in my whole life whatsoever, surely and sincerely.

Forced.

Gun to head.

Cold sweats.

Extreme duress.

Smack talk. Etc.

And seriously: I've never read, and quite possibly never even THOUGHT, anything that foul and disgusting in my whole life.

Think:

Men forcibly peeing in each other's mouths for pleasure.

Think:

Getting turned on by shit and eating out someone's crusty butthole who hasn't washed in months.

Think:

At least one full-page discussion of the growth of dick cheese.

Think:

Rape.

Think:

Pedophilia.

Think:

Nonstop.

Think:

I actually woke up early in the morning when my sibs slept over, thinking: Oh my god, I hope my brother didn't wake up before me and grab that book to read out of boredom because I will never forgive myself.

Think:

I actually stopped reading for a while because I knew if I was going to read, I really should be reading IT, so I would instead find a million excuses not to read.

Think:

I read the last 80 pages in one sitting because it would actually take me a good 10-20 pages to adjust to the vileness of the book (and its effect on my mood), and once I managed to clear that and sank into the mire of filthy filthiness, I figured I best trudge on and get over with.

Think:

All of these things, without lull or any real major plot.

Why did I do it?

Because I actually really like Delany's Dhalgren, which is why I even gave it a chance.

Why did I not just burn it?

I think I only kept reading it because I couldn't let it win.

Would I recommend it?

Dick cheese.

Did I get anything out of it?

I guess there's something to be said for having read one of the foulest things ever written.

But other than that: a bad case of crabs, just from being in its presence.

What will I read next?

The Weetzie Bat series. In the name of detox and purification.

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LIVE IN FEAR!

Very few people know this, but when my cat Franny was still a kitten, she got irradiated in a freak accident at a nearby nuclear powerplant.

As an end result, she is now able to

SHOOT LASERS FROM HER EYES AND BORE HOLES INTO EVEN THE LARGEST OF OBJECTS!!!!




(Click HERE for sound effects)

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Yeah, AWWWWWWWWWW and All That

Apparently my sister has managed to get her hands on (and scan) a bunch of our childhood pics.

And apparently the 80s look pretty much like the 70s:


That is, of course, me with the book

See more HERE

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