i'm on hour five of visiting my parents, and let me tell you this: i came here wayyy too early today. in a little while, i'm going to carole's to check out baby jack. i can't wait to see his balls.
there are labels all over my parents' comptuer warning about computer viruses. "never open email attachments." "be aware of all email subjects!" "maybe you should just use the phone instead?" it's insane. this entire house has operating instructions on every square inch. there's a note on the refrigerator saying "make sure you close refrigerator door!" one has to wonder how *that* one came about. someone got up for a midnight snack, forgot to shut the freezer, and the next morning my mother found a squirrel inside setting up house? i don't know. i can't ask.
i wish chris were here. but he had to work. how convenient. how very, very convenient.
my sister found a box of my stuff and proceeded to read everything that was in the box- letters, cards, JOURNALS- and what she said was, "you have a lot of explaining to do." heh. heh. heh.
anyhow, last night with carole, and chris, was great. the only weird thing- and carole agrees- is that when we see each other after not having hung out in months, the first few hours are full of... bullshit. all the mundane pleasantries, all the semi-awkward questions and answers- basically, a total lack of superstardom. but then there are those moments, after the lacking, that are just perfect. perfect and too intangible to explain.
my grandma gave me a vacuum cleaner. it looks like it's circa 1962. i'll just be happy if it works. we haven't vacuumed the apartment at all. in nearly 3 months. under a microscope, it's probably a thriving city- a thriving city that had better be bracing for inevitable destruction via lots of sucking. and some blowing. this 1962 monster is going to tear some shit up.
Aug 30, 2003
carole's home this weekend from the big apple, and so tonight is our night to hit the town, maybe knock over a liquor store, and then proceed to drink everything that we've stolen.
for some reason today, i'm thinking of the vagina monologues, which we went to see about a year ago. it starred marcia brady, which was kind of odd. imagine marcia brady faking an orgasm. it was enough to make me stop watching nick at night; i guess i should be thankful that it wasn't alice up there. it's one thing to imagine marcia having sex, or masturbating, but another thing to think of alice. even sam the butcher's presence made me question alice's sexuality. i don't think alice was a lesbian, like vh1's "i love the seventies" seemed to suggest- but alice was definitely asexual. as in, she could reproduce herself without any help- create, on her own, an entire army of alices that would later destroy most of who-ville, or whereever it was they lived.
anyhow, we went to the vagina monologues, and surely we looked like we were out on a date, my carole and me. that was one thing we laughed about; another was in the end when i saw my name posted above the door. i had won a prize. i had won a vibrator. "have fun," said the leering asian kid who handed me my new toy, which was encased in a velvet, heart-shaped box. "heh heh heh."
i had to walk to the car holding a vibrator wrapped in velvet. we thought everybody we passed just KNEW what i was holding. and, oh, how greatly hysterical the whole night was.
batteries were included, but i had trouble using it right away because of marcia brady. some events just shouldn't occur in nature. ever.
for some reason today, i'm thinking of the vagina monologues, which we went to see about a year ago. it starred marcia brady, which was kind of odd. imagine marcia brady faking an orgasm. it was enough to make me stop watching nick at night; i guess i should be thankful that it wasn't alice up there. it's one thing to imagine marcia having sex, or masturbating, but another thing to think of alice. even sam the butcher's presence made me question alice's sexuality. i don't think alice was a lesbian, like vh1's "i love the seventies" seemed to suggest- but alice was definitely asexual. as in, she could reproduce herself without any help- create, on her own, an entire army of alices that would later destroy most of who-ville, or whereever it was they lived.
anyhow, we went to the vagina monologues, and surely we looked like we were out on a date, my carole and me. that was one thing we laughed about; another was in the end when i saw my name posted above the door. i had won a prize. i had won a vibrator. "have fun," said the leering asian kid who handed me my new toy, which was encased in a velvet, heart-shaped box. "heh heh heh."
i had to walk to the car holding a vibrator wrapped in velvet. we thought everybody we passed just KNEW what i was holding. and, oh, how greatly hysterical the whole night was.
batteries were included, but i had trouble using it right away because of marcia brady. some events just shouldn't occur in nature. ever.
Aug 29, 2003
only my sister can write an entire email about bowel movements.
today she also wrote: "did you know i'm learning a new language? it's the language of math!" gee. how exciting. i wonder how it's going w/ the conjugating.
i just got done reading "bird by bird: instructions on writing and life." this is because i'm still working on becoming a famous writer. what better way to learn to write than by reading about it? i mean, besides actually writing. the only problem is that i once tried reading a novel by this author and then had to stop because my eyes were starting to blur from the boredom. so who, exactly, am i taking writing advice from? would i be better off reading a book called "how to write" by, say, peter from "the family guy?"
my problem is that for over a year i've been grappling with the same storyline. and it's not a funny story. and, basically, i'm the main character. this may sound a bit egotistic, but they say "write about what you know," and i'm what i know. but among other things that i know is that i'm better with humor than with seriousness. and nothing is coming together, at all.
the other characters keep changing, the ones other than me. i want to write about my best friends, old and new, and what they taught me. i want to write about my mother. i want to write about being selfish and afraid and then about being surprised. i want to write about being brainwashed by someone who is completely *wrong*, and then being haunted by them- i want to write about brainwashing myself.... about fooling myself. i want to write about delusions of flying, about knowing who i am and then not wanting to talk about it, and about the fucked up ways we sometimes choose to express ourselves. i want to write about an anorexic and an artist and an academic and an abuser and about how it really is nurture, not nature, and then i want to write about why we look at strangers.
but who's going to want to read that? i have so many false starts, because, above all, i want to be funny. and some things just aren't that funny.
i'm writing a little story about a man who's writing inspirational calendars. only he's a real prick. and i started writing from an idea i got from chris, a man who has superpowers linked to an appliance. but that reminds me too much of my story from last year about the talking blender. and you know how i've pegged this man with the superpowers? he's got the same voice as my man from the story where a talking bear is delivered to his doorstop. which is the same voice of the prick who's writing the calendars. you see what i'm getting at? it's all the same. talking crap, a prick, an appliance or two.
but at least that stuff makes me smile. and shake my head. sigh. i'm going to write my sister an email about my *own* bowel movements. now that should be something interesting.
today she also wrote: "did you know i'm learning a new language? it's the language of math!" gee. how exciting. i wonder how it's going w/ the conjugating.
i just got done reading "bird by bird: instructions on writing and life." this is because i'm still working on becoming a famous writer. what better way to learn to write than by reading about it? i mean, besides actually writing. the only problem is that i once tried reading a novel by this author and then had to stop because my eyes were starting to blur from the boredom. so who, exactly, am i taking writing advice from? would i be better off reading a book called "how to write" by, say, peter from "the family guy?"
my problem is that for over a year i've been grappling with the same storyline. and it's not a funny story. and, basically, i'm the main character. this may sound a bit egotistic, but they say "write about what you know," and i'm what i know. but among other things that i know is that i'm better with humor than with seriousness. and nothing is coming together, at all.
the other characters keep changing, the ones other than me. i want to write about my best friends, old and new, and what they taught me. i want to write about my mother. i want to write about being selfish and afraid and then about being surprised. i want to write about being brainwashed by someone who is completely *wrong*, and then being haunted by them- i want to write about brainwashing myself.... about fooling myself. i want to write about delusions of flying, about knowing who i am and then not wanting to talk about it, and about the fucked up ways we sometimes choose to express ourselves. i want to write about an anorexic and an artist and an academic and an abuser and about how it really is nurture, not nature, and then i want to write about why we look at strangers.
but who's going to want to read that? i have so many false starts, because, above all, i want to be funny. and some things just aren't that funny.
i'm writing a little story about a man who's writing inspirational calendars. only he's a real prick. and i started writing from an idea i got from chris, a man who has superpowers linked to an appliance. but that reminds me too much of my story from last year about the talking blender. and you know how i've pegged this man with the superpowers? he's got the same voice as my man from the story where a talking bear is delivered to his doorstop. which is the same voice of the prick who's writing the calendars. you see what i'm getting at? it's all the same. talking crap, a prick, an appliance or two.
but at least that stuff makes me smile. and shake my head. sigh. i'm going to write my sister an email about my *own* bowel movements. now that should be something interesting.
Aug 28, 2003
ocean is full of good ideas, like this one:
it's macaroni and cheese (and peas) in a bread bowl. some may consider this a huge waste of bread. still others may not see the point, since he's also using a plate. i, however, find it to be quite a delightful idea. one of those "had to be there moments:" when he gave me some macaroni and cheese (and peas) in a regular bowl and then said "here," proceeding to plop in a huge hunk of the bread that he had scooped from his own bowl. it was like the antithesis of the bread bowl- this large, misshapen piece of bread sitting in the center of my cheesy, and pea-escorted, noodles. i won't lie; i didn't eat all that bread. but ocean didn't eat all of his bowl either- hey, at least we got the photo.
!@#$%^&*()_+
it's macaroni and cheese (and peas) in a bread bowl. some may consider this a huge waste of bread. still others may not see the point, since he's also using a plate. i, however, find it to be quite a delightful idea. one of those "had to be there moments:" when he gave me some macaroni and cheese (and peas) in a regular bowl and then said "here," proceeding to plop in a huge hunk of the bread that he had scooped from his own bowl. it was like the antithesis of the bread bowl- this large, misshapen piece of bread sitting in the center of my cheesy, and pea-escorted, noodles. i won't lie; i didn't eat all that bread. but ocean didn't eat all of his bowl either- hey, at least we got the photo.
!@#$%^&*()_+
Aug 27, 2003
i'm quite certain i'm the only "ferclyn" on the web. that's *world wide* web, which leads me to believe that i'm the only ferclyn in the *world.* there's something comforting about believing this.
i'm not the only me in the world. doing some ego surfing one year, i found another me in boston. she's about a year older than me, a law student, and very hot. she's the only other person who could have rights to the "ferclyn" claim. i highly doubt she's thought of it, though- but, if she has, and if she really is a law student, then i may one day run into some copyright problems.
i wonder if me and the other me are cousins or something... the last name's not that common, after all... or i wonder if that's actually ME out there, the result of some odd cloning project. now that would be interesting. i wonder how i'm liking boston.
i'm not the only me in the world. doing some ego surfing one year, i found another me in boston. she's about a year older than me, a law student, and very hot. she's the only other person who could have rights to the "ferclyn" claim. i highly doubt she's thought of it, though- but, if she has, and if she really is a law student, then i may one day run into some copyright problems.
i wonder if me and the other me are cousins or something... the last name's not that common, after all... or i wonder if that's actually ME out there, the result of some odd cloning project. now that would be interesting. i wonder how i'm liking boston.
usually, when i'm dreaming, there's always a part of me that knows i'm dreaming. lately, i'm dreaming, and i no longer know whether or not what's going on is reality or just my sleeping subconscious. this makes every night rather terrifying, especially because my mind never lets anything good happen to me whilst in dreamland. i wake up having to give myself a pep talk, and my pep talks are usually along the lines of, "alright, you're okay, nothing like that has occurred in your life... yet." i would have made a very poor cheerleader. "go team! although don't waste too much energy, because you're probably not going to win anyhow!! whoo!" insert leg kicks.
optimism is an acquired outlook on life. it's like bleu cheese- you have to practice. although i never had to practice with bleu cheese; i liked it the first time i tried it. so maybe optimism is more like horse radish. that would really be a damn shame because i have vowed to never try horse radish again, after the horse radish incident of '89. i thought that it was cheese, and so i slathered a whole bunch of it onto a cracker and proceeded to pop the cracker into my mouth. imagine my surprise when i found out it was not cheese on my cracker, but horse radish- or, as it is also known as, pureed shit. i drank four glasses of water afterwards, but the taste remained for approximately twelve years.
anyhow, i started this post with the intentions to share my nightmare. now it seems that i've changed my mind.
optimism is an acquired outlook on life. it's like bleu cheese- you have to practice. although i never had to practice with bleu cheese; i liked it the first time i tried it. so maybe optimism is more like horse radish. that would really be a damn shame because i have vowed to never try horse radish again, after the horse radish incident of '89. i thought that it was cheese, and so i slathered a whole bunch of it onto a cracker and proceeded to pop the cracker into my mouth. imagine my surprise when i found out it was not cheese on my cracker, but horse radish- or, as it is also known as, pureed shit. i drank four glasses of water afterwards, but the taste remained for approximately twelve years.
anyhow, i started this post with the intentions to share my nightmare. now it seems that i've changed my mind.
Aug 26, 2003
carole has a new nephew. his name is jack, and he was just born yesterday. she sent me a picture that i was unable to download, but apparently this infant's got balls the size of his head. he's going to grow up to be something else, that jack.
i'd kind of like to think that carole's sister named her kid "jack" after me. i, however, don't have balls the size of my head. so she probably, in fact, named him after somebody else.
i'd kind of like to think that carole's sister named her kid "jack" after me. i, however, don't have balls the size of my head. so she probably, in fact, named him after somebody else.
Aug 25, 2003
sometimes you wake up, get upset about something, do something in defense, and then think, "why did i even bother?" but a lot of actions don't have delete buttons, and so you have to do what you do best and just walk away from the open can of worms. oh the adjectives i could ascribe to the worms.
what a day. and, oh, what a night.
what a day. and, oh, what a night.
Aug 24, 2003
thoughts running through my head at work
don't touch that. i heard you the first time. you obviously didn't hear me the first time, because this is the third time you're asking the same fucking question. you're not allowed to bargain. don't touch that. damn, you need a breath mint. your wife needs a breath mint, too. this wouldn't have happened if you weren't so cheap. i don't care what your insurance card says, we don't take it. what a fucking cheapskate. i'm sorry, m'am, but no matter what pair of glasses you buy, you're still going to be fat. really fat. don't touch that. put things back where you got them from. could you please wipe the cheeto powder off of your kids hands before he touches anything else? don't put that frame in your mouth; that's disgusting for several reasons. yeah, sure you only clean your lenses with our cleaning stuff. yeah, does it *look* repairable? that's a coupon for *pearle,* you jackass. why do you look so surprised at the price? don't touch that. are you even listening to me? i wish you had washed your face this morning; you're getting oil on all the frames. can't you see how busy i am? don't get pissy with me; i could fuck your vision up so badly, so subtly, that it would drive you NUTS and yet you'd never know, exactly, what was wrong. come on, buy another pair, you can obviously afford it. our policy does not cover stupidity. have you been *chewing* on these? don't touch that. no, i don't have any samples. just take my word for it. god, i hope i never end up like you. i don't care where your nose hurts. it's not the frames, it's your thin, wrinkled, veiny face that's causing all that pain. um, yeah, those look real good. i swear to god, lady, if you don't stop asking me the same question nine times, i'm going to bore a hole through your skull with this screwdriver. no. i can't give you anything for free. what does this look like? we close in five minutes. don't you have a home?
don't touch that. i heard you the first time. you obviously didn't hear me the first time, because this is the third time you're asking the same fucking question. you're not allowed to bargain. don't touch that. damn, you need a breath mint. your wife needs a breath mint, too. this wouldn't have happened if you weren't so cheap. i don't care what your insurance card says, we don't take it. what a fucking cheapskate. i'm sorry, m'am, but no matter what pair of glasses you buy, you're still going to be fat. really fat. don't touch that. put things back where you got them from. could you please wipe the cheeto powder off of your kids hands before he touches anything else? don't put that frame in your mouth; that's disgusting for several reasons. yeah, sure you only clean your lenses with our cleaning stuff. yeah, does it *look* repairable? that's a coupon for *pearle,* you jackass. why do you look so surprised at the price? don't touch that. are you even listening to me? i wish you had washed your face this morning; you're getting oil on all the frames. can't you see how busy i am? don't get pissy with me; i could fuck your vision up so badly, so subtly, that it would drive you NUTS and yet you'd never know, exactly, what was wrong. come on, buy another pair, you can obviously afford it. our policy does not cover stupidity. have you been *chewing* on these? don't touch that. no, i don't have any samples. just take my word for it. god, i hope i never end up like you. i don't care where your nose hurts. it's not the frames, it's your thin, wrinkled, veiny face that's causing all that pain. um, yeah, those look real good. i swear to god, lady, if you don't stop asking me the same question nine times, i'm going to bore a hole through your skull with this screwdriver. no. i can't give you anything for free. what does this look like? we close in five minutes. don't you have a home?
last night i got bit on the ass by a five year old. he was hiding in my toilet. now, i usually check for things in the toilet, such as five year olds or sewer monsters or my toothbrush or somebody else's poop, but last night i was in too big of a hurry. i was given quite the surprise when i sat down. "yee-oww!" i yelped, leaping up and cracking my skull on the towel bar. "who are you!?!?"
i think he was lithuanian. i couldn't get a word of english out of him. grinning at me from the toilet, i could see that his little teeth were sharpened to points. i rubbed at my ass and wondered if i was in any real medical danger.
"i don't speak lithuanian," i said loudly, hoping he would understand, "so if you can just get out and go home, that would be really swell."
he snapped his teeth at me. flustered, and still having to pee since my first attempt had been foiled, i thought about it for a moment and hit the flusher. i had to hit it a few more times because he kept getting stuck, but eventually he was gone, down the pooper and flushed out of my life like many a cigarette butt, like many a dead goldfish, like many a... well, i'm too much of a lady to go on.
i think he was lithuanian. i couldn't get a word of english out of him. grinning at me from the toilet, i could see that his little teeth were sharpened to points. i rubbed at my ass and wondered if i was in any real medical danger.
"i don't speak lithuanian," i said loudly, hoping he would understand, "so if you can just get out and go home, that would be really swell."
he snapped his teeth at me. flustered, and still having to pee since my first attempt had been foiled, i thought about it for a moment and hit the flusher. i had to hit it a few more times because he kept getting stuck, but eventually he was gone, down the pooper and flushed out of my life like many a cigarette butt, like many a dead goldfish, like many a... well, i'm too much of a lady to go on.
Aug 22, 2003
karaoke rule number 14: don't dedicate a karaoke song to *anyone*. especially a recently deceased grandmother.
karaoke rule number 57: it's not cool to steal the little golf pencils that come inside the karaoke book.
karaoke rule number 242: never, ever become a regular. then all the other regulars will know that you don't have a healthy social life. that, outside of the karaoke bar, you can't even get the homeless to talk to you.
karaoke rule number 483: if you think you know the words, you don't. read the goddamn screen.
just a few more...
it's an early night. chris and i both work early in the morning on, of all days, saturday. also sunday, which i hear is referred to as the "sabbath" in certain circles. tonight, we had a dinner consisting of salad (the bag of which i opened myself), stuffed mushrooms (which chris made himself, so very deserving of the word 'orgasmic'), and crabs. don't buy crabs. the meat was good, but there was so little of it! not to mention that, while eating it, we emptied a tub of butter.
by the way, if you're reading this, ocean, we owe you a tub of butter.
so, i've been on and off. i think that, for the rest of my life, i will always have episodes that leave me feeling lower than low. i think some people call it "depression," but those people charge way too much, and so i will refer to it as "a case of the mondays." on tuesdays. and wednesdays. and thursdays and fridays. you get the picture. no matter how well things may be going for me, i'll get hit with these feelings for no apparent reason. and i can't explain them, what they are or where they come from. it's been a weird couple of weeks for me, which the average blog reader probably doesn't know, but i think i'm feeling better. i'm hoping, at least. then i figure i'm good for another six months, which leaves me at about mid-february when i'm throwing food across the kitchen and sobbing because i can't stand being in the same room with myself. which is mostly unavoidable.
but by mid-march, i'll be okay again. and that's what we live for.
the worst part is that i feel bad... for chris. like i should have warned him better that, every once in a while, i would be like this. not the joke-cracking wiseass he fell in love with, but the hopeless, mopey, whiney, needy, sniffling, drained-of-energy... wiseass... that... he fell in love with. unwittingly.
he should've known there was a catch. ha. ha. ha.
and, hey, i'm writing this now, of all times, when i actually feel better. so typical. i always wait until the last possible minute to get things off my chest.
what's bothering you?
nothing.
karaoke rule number 57: it's not cool to steal the little golf pencils that come inside the karaoke book.
karaoke rule number 242: never, ever become a regular. then all the other regulars will know that you don't have a healthy social life. that, outside of the karaoke bar, you can't even get the homeless to talk to you.
karaoke rule number 483: if you think you know the words, you don't. read the goddamn screen.
just a few more...
it's an early night. chris and i both work early in the morning on, of all days, saturday. also sunday, which i hear is referred to as the "sabbath" in certain circles. tonight, we had a dinner consisting of salad (the bag of which i opened myself), stuffed mushrooms (which chris made himself, so very deserving of the word 'orgasmic'), and crabs. don't buy crabs. the meat was good, but there was so little of it! not to mention that, while eating it, we emptied a tub of butter.
by the way, if you're reading this, ocean, we owe you a tub of butter.
so, i've been on and off. i think that, for the rest of my life, i will always have episodes that leave me feeling lower than low. i think some people call it "depression," but those people charge way too much, and so i will refer to it as "a case of the mondays." on tuesdays. and wednesdays. and thursdays and fridays. you get the picture. no matter how well things may be going for me, i'll get hit with these feelings for no apparent reason. and i can't explain them, what they are or where they come from. it's been a weird couple of weeks for me, which the average blog reader probably doesn't know, but i think i'm feeling better. i'm hoping, at least. then i figure i'm good for another six months, which leaves me at about mid-february when i'm throwing food across the kitchen and sobbing because i can't stand being in the same room with myself. which is mostly unavoidable.
but by mid-march, i'll be okay again. and that's what we live for.
the worst part is that i feel bad... for chris. like i should have warned him better that, every once in a while, i would be like this. not the joke-cracking wiseass he fell in love with, but the hopeless, mopey, whiney, needy, sniffling, drained-of-energy... wiseass... that... he fell in love with. unwittingly.
he should've known there was a catch. ha. ha. ha.
and, hey, i'm writing this now, of all times, when i actually feel better. so typical. i always wait until the last possible minute to get things off my chest.
what's bothering you?
nothing.
Aug 21, 2003
karaoke rule number 621: don't do "lightning crashes," by live. you don't want to have to say the word "placenta" in a bar.
bill and i went to one of the local bars last night. neither of us sang, but there was one dope doing the aforementioned "lightning crashes." and i thought, why? why? it's not a karaoke song. "sweet caroline" is a karaoke song. "build me up buttercup." now *that's* a karaoke song.
you can go on the karaoke circuit and win tons of shit. also, "golden tee," the golfing arcade game. i think the grand prize is something like seventy grand. and, magic, the card game, does tournaments where the winner pulls in over a quarter of a million. that's dollars, not... like, tacos, or something. it really makes you think.
to be successful in this world, you don't need college. you just need a shitty hobby of some sort. plus free time. then you shake well and serve.
bill and i went to one of the local bars last night. neither of us sang, but there was one dope doing the aforementioned "lightning crashes." and i thought, why? why? it's not a karaoke song. "sweet caroline" is a karaoke song. "build me up buttercup." now *that's* a karaoke song.
you can go on the karaoke circuit and win tons of shit. also, "golden tee," the golfing arcade game. i think the grand prize is something like seventy grand. and, magic, the card game, does tournaments where the winner pulls in over a quarter of a million. that's dollars, not... like, tacos, or something. it really makes you think.
to be successful in this world, you don't need college. you just need a shitty hobby of some sort. plus free time. then you shake well and serve.
Aug 20, 2003
it's really about the loss of innocence. the symbolism is not particulary easy to pick up on, but a careful reader will notice that the plastic pancakes show up whenever there's about to be a metamorphosis of some sort. the green syrup stands for resistance. the year-old butter is the habits that we are afraid to lose. notice that the main characters all have names beginning with numbers. this is no coincidence. i modeled 5cynthia after my mother, a tall, long-haired woman who often drew her eyebrows on with strange shades of red and burgundy. the preface was written by a man i befriended on the subway. the preface to the preface was written by the nya- national yogurt association. and the cover was illustrated by norman rockwell. i got it off a calendar.
Aug 19, 2003
i played sim city 4 last night before going to bed. my nightmares, therefore, were fraught with worries over where to build my roads, whether or not to put residential zoning next to industrial, and if i could get by with having only one small police station.
this may be why i don't get into computer games. because they haunt me. i was tossing and turning all night long.
this reminds me of the tetris debacle back in '92. i played during the day and then had dreams at night that my uncle (why my uncle, i still don't know) was standing on a ladder throwing tetris pieces at me. "make a line, bitch!" he'd cry, and i'd try my best but usually end up having one of the more sharp, angular pieces cracking me right on the forehead. for weeks whenever i closed my eyes, i'd see tetris pieces, and my uncle, and i'd go mad trying to mentally arrange them- and avoid getting hit by them. eventually, i had to stop playing. then i got "zombies ate my neighbors" for super nintendo, and even my waking hours were spent figuring out whether i should run from the undead or be brave and try to kill them. by "undead," i mean "family members." like my uncle, r.i.p.
i also watched "high fidelity" yesterday, for about the twelfth time. lord, what a great movie. the part where tim robbins get his teeth knocked out by a slam to the jaw from a telephone makes me laugh so hard i have to pee. just thinking about it, i kind of have to pee. excuse me for a moment.
this may be why i don't get into computer games. because they haunt me. i was tossing and turning all night long.
this reminds me of the tetris debacle back in '92. i played during the day and then had dreams at night that my uncle (why my uncle, i still don't know) was standing on a ladder throwing tetris pieces at me. "make a line, bitch!" he'd cry, and i'd try my best but usually end up having one of the more sharp, angular pieces cracking me right on the forehead. for weeks whenever i closed my eyes, i'd see tetris pieces, and my uncle, and i'd go mad trying to mentally arrange them- and avoid getting hit by them. eventually, i had to stop playing. then i got "zombies ate my neighbors" for super nintendo, and even my waking hours were spent figuring out whether i should run from the undead or be brave and try to kill them. by "undead," i mean "family members." like my uncle, r.i.p.
i also watched "high fidelity" yesterday, for about the twelfth time. lord, what a great movie. the part where tim robbins get his teeth knocked out by a slam to the jaw from a telephone makes me laugh so hard i have to pee. just thinking about it, i kind of have to pee. excuse me for a moment.
Aug 18, 2003
saturday was fun. sunday, recovering from saturday, was not fun. just so we're all caught up, today is monday.
(details and... oh, how embarrassing.)
yesterday i watched a foreign film. i noticed that the actors seemed to be saying a lot more than what was translated. i think i'd probably do that, too, if i were a translator.
character: after the train wreck that killed my uncle, i was very sad. i went for the reading of the will on a rainy monday, and i was very surprised to find out he had left me sole custody of his rabbits.
translated as: i need a shotgun to get rid of some rabbits.
(details and... oh, how embarrassing.)
yesterday i watched a foreign film. i noticed that the actors seemed to be saying a lot more than what was translated. i think i'd probably do that, too, if i were a translator.
character: after the train wreck that killed my uncle, i was very sad. i went for the reading of the will on a rainy monday, and i was very surprised to find out he had left me sole custody of his rabbits.
translated as: i need a shotgun to get rid of some rabbits.
Aug 16, 2003
i don't understand. today's word of the day is still "davy jones' locker."
i'm doing fine, thanks for asking. i'm staring at my cell phone bill. i've got a great plan. all the minutes you could possibly need for 29 bucks. a girl can't go wrong.
this month? it's 70 bucks. i do this all the time, which makes no sense because i hate talking on the phone for more than two minutes. no conversation should go over 2 minutes.
"hi, it's me."
"hey."
"wanna do something?"
"sure. nine?"
"yeah, nine."
(pause)
"how's the diarrhea?"
"oh, it's better."
"and the chronic vomiting?"
"i think it was the taco bell."
"alright, see you at nine."
see, i even got some banter in there, and it still comes out to under two minutes. who the hell am i talking to for so long? it must be that radio show i keep calling into.
"and, you're on the air!"
"okay.... hello, can you hear me?"
"you're on the air!"
"yeah, hi, jackie from her living room, first time listener long time caller. i just had a question for your producer."
"go right ahead, little lady!"
"why's he such a fucking douche bag?"
"what-"
"your morning dj's are morons. and the one dude keeps referring to his wife, but it's clear to everyone that he's a raging homosexual. he's got his cock so far up-"
"either request a song or i'll disconnect you."
"- the other guy's asshole that-"
click.
"and you're on the air!"
"yeah, jackie again. i was somehow disconnected a few moments ago. can i request a song?"
anyhow, somebody's going to have to pay this bill, and it's not going to be. so maybe i'll just... get out my checkbook... write the check... put it in an envelope... hmm, that's not going to work.
tonight we're celebrating my belated birthday downtown in the city of lights with some of my fabulous ex-coworkers. that store was really amazing. there were tons of us between the ages of 21 and 26, and we were all so fucking cool. i mean, most of us were so fucking cool. i certainly was. anyhow, i got to go.
i'm doing fine, thanks for asking. i'm staring at my cell phone bill. i've got a great plan. all the minutes you could possibly need for 29 bucks. a girl can't go wrong.
this month? it's 70 bucks. i do this all the time, which makes no sense because i hate talking on the phone for more than two minutes. no conversation should go over 2 minutes.
"hi, it's me."
"hey."
"wanna do something?"
"sure. nine?"
"yeah, nine."
(pause)
"how's the diarrhea?"
"oh, it's better."
"and the chronic vomiting?"
"i think it was the taco bell."
"alright, see you at nine."
see, i even got some banter in there, and it still comes out to under two minutes. who the hell am i talking to for so long? it must be that radio show i keep calling into.
"and, you're on the air!"
"okay.... hello, can you hear me?"
"you're on the air!"
"yeah, hi, jackie from her living room, first time listener long time caller. i just had a question for your producer."
"go right ahead, little lady!"
"why's he such a fucking douche bag?"
"what-"
"your morning dj's are morons. and the one dude keeps referring to his wife, but it's clear to everyone that he's a raging homosexual. he's got his cock so far up-"
"either request a song or i'll disconnect you."
"- the other guy's asshole that-"
click.
"and you're on the air!"
"yeah, jackie again. i was somehow disconnected a few moments ago. can i request a song?"
anyhow, somebody's going to have to pay this bill, and it's not going to be. so maybe i'll just... get out my checkbook... write the check... put it in an envelope... hmm, that's not going to work.
tonight we're celebrating my belated birthday downtown in the city of lights with some of my fabulous ex-coworkers. that store was really amazing. there were tons of us between the ages of 21 and 26, and we were all so fucking cool. i mean, most of us were so fucking cool. i certainly was. anyhow, i got to go.
Aug 15, 2003
in the fourth grade, i copied my math tests from the indian girl next to me named sangita. she always got a's, and so i always got a's. fourth grade math was crucial because how well you did seemed to determine what classes you would take for the next decade or so. i spent most of grade school copying math. in junior high, i also copied. in high school, i did exceedingly well in advanced algebra.... but everything else involved either copying or making cheatsheets. finally, in my senior year, i was put in calculus. lord knows why i agreed to this. most of calculus was spent sleeping or doodling. this year, i knew i was too lost to even copy, and so i failed it. it was the only F i ever got.
i'm horrible at math. it struck me yesterday exactly how inept i am. i mean, i know i don't know the first thing about finding the circumference of a circle- something about pi multiplied by how long your pencil is?- but i thought that at least i could always add. who can't add? it's the first thing you learn, after basic shapes. well, i know my basic shapes- but on three separate incidents yesterday, i added the price of the frame plus the price of the lenses- and ended up quoting a number that was nowhere near the actual total. and this made me both feel and look really, really dumb.
i wanted to say to my customers, "i'm not as stupid as i sound. it's just that i was never good at math... or science... or remembering important dates in history... or any subject that involved a lot of attention to detail.... really, i was going to major in english, but then i didn't feel like doing any reading."
so i majored in marketing. not the marketing/business aspect that would have involved numbers and analyzing them, but the marketing/communications aspect that involved discussing what color would best sell bran.
i can't add.
i'm horrible at math. it struck me yesterday exactly how inept i am. i mean, i know i don't know the first thing about finding the circumference of a circle- something about pi multiplied by how long your pencil is?- but i thought that at least i could always add. who can't add? it's the first thing you learn, after basic shapes. well, i know my basic shapes- but on three separate incidents yesterday, i added the price of the frame plus the price of the lenses- and ended up quoting a number that was nowhere near the actual total. and this made me both feel and look really, really dumb.
i wanted to say to my customers, "i'm not as stupid as i sound. it's just that i was never good at math... or science... or remembering important dates in history... or any subject that involved a lot of attention to detail.... really, i was going to major in english, but then i didn't feel like doing any reading."
so i majored in marketing. not the marketing/business aspect that would have involved numbers and analyzing them, but the marketing/communications aspect that involved discussing what color would best sell bran.
i can't add.
Aug 14, 2003
i decided that if i were to become a superhero, i'd hang around on the *insides* of windows. like, spiderman seems to favor the outside of buildings? i'd fight crime from within.
i figured that it was about time i put a picture of myself up, considering that some of the people who read this haven't ever seen me. so i decided to use the dorkiest pose possible. i think i succeeded.
i figured that it was about time i put a picture of myself up, considering that some of the people who read this haven't ever seen me. so i decided to use the dorkiest pose possible. i think i succeeded.
Aug 13, 2003
sometimes i feel utterly incapable of holding a conversation. sometimes i feel like speech is such a chore and that i would much rather keep myself locked up somewhere with the internet and maybe a flashlight as my only means of communication with the outside world. sometimes i feel like the things i say don't make any sense. or that i'm talking through a mouthful of graham crackers and all that's coming out is crumbs.
when i type in my blog, sometimes i hear the 'doogie howser, md' theme music. then since i always get neil patrick harris confused with that kid ricky from 'silver spoons,' after a few moments, i start to hear the 'silver spoons' theme.
i'm a bad public speaker. i talk fast and refuse to look at anyone. i mutter little asides to myself such as, "well, this isn't going anywhere," and "not like this guy cares" which tend to detract from my point. if i'm talking to more than two people and notice that more than two people happen to be looking at me, i lose it completely. i no longer know what to do with my hands, so i wave them around. i accentuate the wrong syllables. when i can't think of what word to say, i substitute with, "you know what i'm talking about." we all, however, know that they don't.
when i think something is really funny, i have a laugh that basically sounds like something inside my throat has exploded. it's exploded and it's coming to kill you.
i never liked 'doogie howser, md.' i never thought he was cute. i only watched the shows because i too wanted a computerized journal. when i was a kid, i wasn't allowed to use our word processing program except for homework. see, my parents stifled the writer in me for fear that i'd accidentally erase their hard drive. and now look. an ugly internet worm has gotten to their system- and it wasn't because i wanted to write a story about how fifth graders rule and fourth graders drool.
once i did accidentally erase the hard drive- or at least a key part of it. but that, you see, is not my point at all.
when i type in my blog, sometimes i hear the 'doogie howser, md' theme music. then since i always get neil patrick harris confused with that kid ricky from 'silver spoons,' after a few moments, i start to hear the 'silver spoons' theme.
i'm a bad public speaker. i talk fast and refuse to look at anyone. i mutter little asides to myself such as, "well, this isn't going anywhere," and "not like this guy cares" which tend to detract from my point. if i'm talking to more than two people and notice that more than two people happen to be looking at me, i lose it completely. i no longer know what to do with my hands, so i wave them around. i accentuate the wrong syllables. when i can't think of what word to say, i substitute with, "you know what i'm talking about." we all, however, know that they don't.
when i think something is really funny, i have a laugh that basically sounds like something inside my throat has exploded. it's exploded and it's coming to kill you.
i never liked 'doogie howser, md.' i never thought he was cute. i only watched the shows because i too wanted a computerized journal. when i was a kid, i wasn't allowed to use our word processing program except for homework. see, my parents stifled the writer in me for fear that i'd accidentally erase their hard drive. and now look. an ugly internet worm has gotten to their system- and it wasn't because i wanted to write a story about how fifth graders rule and fourth graders drool.
once i did accidentally erase the hard drive- or at least a key part of it. but that, you see, is not my point at all.
all the computers in this apartment crashed and/or became infected with that stupid worm. they say those that started the virus had a sense of humor because they encoded some snotty remarks about bill gates in the virus. sense of humor? i was not laughing. why couldn't they have encoded the snotty remarks in, say, a newsletter? a greeting card? a personal ad in the washington post? why in a virus that's infected *my* computer? don't they understand that things that irritate me are never, ever funny? luckily, all is well, which is good because i've only paid off 1/10 of this laptop. basically, i own the home row and the part of the memory that the paint program inhabits.
Aug 11, 2003
i bought a digital camera today. the pictures all look blurry. this is surely my fault.
there was a picture of chris here, but he got all pissy about it and made me take it down.
i took one of myself in the mirror that i don't like. i also have one of ocean, but he's shirtless and the picture was taken w/o his permission. so i'll refrain from posting either one. just you wait, though, just you wait.
there was a picture of chris here, but he got all pissy about it and made me take it down.
i took one of myself in the mirror that i don't like. i also have one of ocean, but he's shirtless and the picture was taken w/o his permission. so i'll refrain from posting either one. just you wait, though, just you wait.
Aug 10, 2003
we went to a wedding last night. the dinner alone, i understand, cost literally an arm and a leg for each plate. close to two arms, one leg, and part of the spinal cord. that's not counting the renting of the fancy shmancy ballroom at the hotel inter-continental on michigan avenue, the umpteen photographers, the what appeared to be six thousand arrangements of roses each the size of your average canadian province, and then the spotlight for each of these enormous rose arrangements. my mind whirled thinking of the expenses- the princess-like wedding dress, the live band with four separate violinists, the mushroom bar, the filet mignon, the fact that we were in a ballroom- a ballroom. with servers who folded your napkins for you if you got up for even a second.
we had macaroni and cheese served in martini glasses. maki rolls as an appetizer. there were about a dozen people in the live band, and there were elevator attendants and godiva chocolates and a view of michigan avenue. it all got me to thinking. when i get married, i'll never be able to afford anything like this. when i get married, the reception will probably be in the motel six convention room. on a wednesday.
after thinking about all the money lauren's parents shelled out for this gala, i feel kind of bad for only getting them a thirty dollar clock at "things remembered." but some of us can afford ballrooms, and the rest of us can afford clocks. thirty dollar ones.
there were speeches, of course. lauren and eric are perfect for each other, perfect, a perfect match, she's the perfect girl, he's the perfect guy, they're the perfect couple, the wedding is perfect, their love is perfect, everything's just perfect, perfect. thank you for sharing this wonderful day, this wonderful couple, what a wonderful wedding, a wonderful love, he's just so wonderful, she's just so wonderful, their love is so wonderful, everything's just wonderful. perfectly wonderful.
a thesaurus would been a better gift, methinks, rather than the clock.
ah, i think i'm bitter. i don't want to be bitter, or envious, or cynical.... but i also don't want to be wasting one of my few days off by watching tv and playing on the computer all afternoon.... and look at that, i am. so, while you can help most things, you usually don't. or at least i don't.
insert smile.
we had macaroni and cheese served in martini glasses. maki rolls as an appetizer. there were about a dozen people in the live band, and there were elevator attendants and godiva chocolates and a view of michigan avenue. it all got me to thinking. when i get married, i'll never be able to afford anything like this. when i get married, the reception will probably be in the motel six convention room. on a wednesday.
after thinking about all the money lauren's parents shelled out for this gala, i feel kind of bad for only getting them a thirty dollar clock at "things remembered." but some of us can afford ballrooms, and the rest of us can afford clocks. thirty dollar ones.
there were speeches, of course. lauren and eric are perfect for each other, perfect, a perfect match, she's the perfect girl, he's the perfect guy, they're the perfect couple, the wedding is perfect, their love is perfect, everything's just perfect, perfect. thank you for sharing this wonderful day, this wonderful couple, what a wonderful wedding, a wonderful love, he's just so wonderful, she's just so wonderful, their love is so wonderful, everything's just wonderful. perfectly wonderful.
a thesaurus would been a better gift, methinks, rather than the clock.
ah, i think i'm bitter. i don't want to be bitter, or envious, or cynical.... but i also don't want to be wasting one of my few days off by watching tv and playing on the computer all afternoon.... and look at that, i am. so, while you can help most things, you usually don't. or at least i don't.
insert smile.
Aug 9, 2003
i turned down a chance to go to seattle. nikki's going in september to visit her friend javier (apparently you pronounce the "j" like an "h"), and she requested that i come along. she got a deal- three hundred bucks for a round trip plane ticket and hotel.
i love seattle. even the fact that it's always so dreary kind of turns me on. there's something about seattle that's just cool. like, if seattle were a guy, it would be a tall, attractive guy wearing the greatest three dollar thirft store shirt you've ever seen. it would be a guy with a dry, cynical sense of humor who drinks a lot of coffee and stomps through the city in enviable boots. he paints and writes and reads great books by little-known, recently published authors and listens to cutting edge albums *and* wants to see every new indie film that you do. he's smart. he never shows off about it, but you know he's smart, because it shows in his jokes. he has very nice eyes and doesn't flinch if it starts to rain. if seattle were a guy, that's what the guy would be like.
and if seattle were a girl, i'd like to think that girl would kind of be like me, only closer to the version of me that makes my aspirations more of a reality. so, if seattle were a girl, it would be a tall, thin girl wearing the greatest three dollar thrift store shirt you've ever seen. greatest sense of humor you've ever come across, coupled with a dollops of modesty. she'd also be attractive, but not in your stereotypical way. like, her boyfriend would refer to her as "unbearably cute," but most people wouldn't really notice her until they got her talking. she'd read and write and take great photographs with a camera that actually worked; she'd have a good record collection and a working knowledge of most things artistic or, at least, interesting. she'd be sarcastic, have a slight mean streak, and yet still be nice to animals and foreigners and usually children, unless of course they were sticky fingered or too demanding. i mean both the children and the foriegners. she'd also be independently wealthy from accidentally finding a flower that was able to transport you backwards and forwards within the space time continuum.
anyways, i'm not going to seattle because- i need to go to new york to visit carole. this is a priority. also, while i do have three hundred dollars, i need it for other things. like going to new york, or eating. if i do go to seattle again, i want chris to go, too. and as far as traveling with nikki? i think her incessant chatter might wear me out by the middle of the first day, if not by the end of the flight there. which is about four hours.
and who knows what this javier kid is like. his boots might not even be all that enviable, for all i know.
i love seattle. even the fact that it's always so dreary kind of turns me on. there's something about seattle that's just cool. like, if seattle were a guy, it would be a tall, attractive guy wearing the greatest three dollar thirft store shirt you've ever seen. it would be a guy with a dry, cynical sense of humor who drinks a lot of coffee and stomps through the city in enviable boots. he paints and writes and reads great books by little-known, recently published authors and listens to cutting edge albums *and* wants to see every new indie film that you do. he's smart. he never shows off about it, but you know he's smart, because it shows in his jokes. he has very nice eyes and doesn't flinch if it starts to rain. if seattle were a guy, that's what the guy would be like.
and if seattle were a girl, i'd like to think that girl would kind of be like me, only closer to the version of me that makes my aspirations more of a reality. so, if seattle were a girl, it would be a tall, thin girl wearing the greatest three dollar thrift store shirt you've ever seen. greatest sense of humor you've ever come across, coupled with a dollops of modesty. she'd also be attractive, but not in your stereotypical way. like, her boyfriend would refer to her as "unbearably cute," but most people wouldn't really notice her until they got her talking. she'd read and write and take great photographs with a camera that actually worked; she'd have a good record collection and a working knowledge of most things artistic or, at least, interesting. she'd be sarcastic, have a slight mean streak, and yet still be nice to animals and foreigners and usually children, unless of course they were sticky fingered or too demanding. i mean both the children and the foriegners. she'd also be independently wealthy from accidentally finding a flower that was able to transport you backwards and forwards within the space time continuum.
anyways, i'm not going to seattle because- i need to go to new york to visit carole. this is a priority. also, while i do have three hundred dollars, i need it for other things. like going to new york, or eating. if i do go to seattle again, i want chris to go, too. and as far as traveling with nikki? i think her incessant chatter might wear me out by the middle of the first day, if not by the end of the flight there. which is about four hours.
and who knows what this javier kid is like. his boots might not even be all that enviable, for all i know.
yesterday, i met a celebrity. not jim carrey, but the dog- the dog that was in "the mask" and "my dog skip" and various coach commercials. you know coach, they sell ugly handbags for something like six hundred bucks a pop. anyhow, i met this dog and it was an odd moment indeed. here was an animal, a goddamn *dog*, that had already accomplished more in life than i ever would. i'm not going to be in a jim carrey movie. my likeness isn't going to be used to sell purses. not to mention, i was willing to bet that the dog had more cash than i did. all in all, it was very depressing indeed.
Aug 8, 2003
i need to figure out how to become independently wealthy within the next month or so. i'd like to invent something, run a few info-mercials, and proceed watch the money roll in. i want to accidentally discover another periodic element- but not a radioactive one. something fun. or i want to sue somebody for upwards of a quarter of a billion dollars. i don't want to have to come down with any disease in order to sue; i don't, for damn sure, want to suffer psychological damage or have a lot of scarring in my uterus.
i don't want to work. at all. maybe if i could figure out exactly what i wanted to do, then that would be a different story.
I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that.
ditto. it's a shame i don't know how to kickbox.
one day i'll be satisfied with what i'm doing for a job. until then, i'll continue to not be satisfied. at all.
i don't want to work. at all. maybe if i could figure out exactly what i wanted to do, then that would be a different story.
I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that.
ditto. it's a shame i don't know how to kickbox.
one day i'll be satisfied with what i'm doing for a job. until then, i'll continue to not be satisfied. at all.
Aug 7, 2003
the guy who's cutting the grass looks a little like tom petty.
yesterday at work, my coworker joanne fainted. she's diabetic and often has "episodes," but this was the first one i'd ever seen. i looked up while making a phone call and saw her laying on the floor. the first thing i thought was, "why the hell is she laying down?" the second thing i thought was, "do i get to lay down too?" frankly, i was a little pooped from remaining erect all day. heh, there's a sentence. anyways, the third thing i thought was, "boy, she has some fucking nerve."
then, the fourth thing i thought when i saw my manager run over to her repeating "oh god, oh god," was, "i'm a really big asshole." because it did not occur to me that she had passed out until that moment, a full minute or two after i had noticed that she was on the floor.
i guess i'm a little slow at times. also, grossly insensitive.
yesterday at work, my coworker joanne fainted. she's diabetic and often has "episodes," but this was the first one i'd ever seen. i looked up while making a phone call and saw her laying on the floor. the first thing i thought was, "why the hell is she laying down?" the second thing i thought was, "do i get to lay down too?" frankly, i was a little pooped from remaining erect all day. heh, there's a sentence. anyways, the third thing i thought was, "boy, she has some fucking nerve."
then, the fourth thing i thought when i saw my manager run over to her repeating "oh god, oh god," was, "i'm a really big asshole." because it did not occur to me that she had passed out until that moment, a full minute or two after i had noticed that she was on the floor.
i guess i'm a little slow at times. also, grossly insensitive.
Aug 6, 2003
today is my birthday.
my mother gave me a card with 12 dollars worth of starbucks gift certificates inside. she never ceases to amaze me. i know those certificates are a totally recycled gift; she's probably had them in her wallet for over 2 years now, but it must be difficult for her to go out and buy coffee with such a rigid tv-watching schedule.
sigh. she also gave me some gum. it saddens me that even with her own daughter, she's the cheapest lady alive, but i guess if i try to understand.....
oh well, fuck it. i'm 23.
my mother gave me a card with 12 dollars worth of starbucks gift certificates inside. she never ceases to amaze me. i know those certificates are a totally recycled gift; she's probably had them in her wallet for over 2 years now, but it must be difficult for her to go out and buy coffee with such a rigid tv-watching schedule.
sigh. she also gave me some gum. it saddens me that even with her own daughter, she's the cheapest lady alive, but i guess if i try to understand.....
oh well, fuck it. i'm 23.
Aug 5, 2003
i've started reading "catch 22." i've started reading chris' copy of "catch 22," which was published in 1965 and smells like the closeted sweater of some dead old lady. the pages are properly yellowed, and i'm sure that by the time i'm finished, i'll have to reassamble the book with rubber bands and bubble gum. i'm hard on the books i read. usually, i get mustard in them.
anyways, why i'm bring this up is because i came across the word "infundibuliform" while reading. and after practicing saying it aloud a few times, i tried to guess what it might mean. i came up with "formed like something fun," "a boring, gimpy bull," and "in dire need of a large peach smoothie." here's what it really means.
in·fun·dib·u·li·form ( P ) Pronunciation Key (nfn-dby-l-fôrm)
adj.
Shaped like a funnel.
my goal is to use this word today in a sentence. i already have the sentence. "that funnel is infundibuliform." i don't have a funnel, though.... so, shit, there goes that.
anyways, why i'm bring this up is because i came across the word "infundibuliform" while reading. and after practicing saying it aloud a few times, i tried to guess what it might mean. i came up with "formed like something fun," "a boring, gimpy bull," and "in dire need of a large peach smoothie." here's what it really means.
in·fun·dib·u·li·form ( P ) Pronunciation Key (nfn-dby-l-fôrm)
adj.
Shaped like a funnel.
my goal is to use this word today in a sentence. i already have the sentence. "that funnel is infundibuliform." i don't have a funnel, though.... so, shit, there goes that.
Aug 3, 2003
a while ago, i painted this painting that maybe you've heard of it. i called it "starry night," after my good friend bob "the starry night" macdonald. he was the main inspiration for this painting because he was the one who motivated me to actually do something with my life. "you should make something," he'd always say.
"and you should shut up," i'd say, because usually i was in the middle of something when he told me this, like writing a child-support check or trying to get the cap off of a 40.
"make something," he'd repeat.
"like what?" i'd finally ask. it was no secret that i'd dropped out of carpentry school three years earlier after accidentally nailing my professor's foot to the bumper of a buick. "you know i don't have it in me."
"you do," bob "the starry night" macdonald would insist. "write something, like a haiku about social injustices. or paint something, like a portrait of me."
"a portrait of me?"
"no, a portrait of *me*."
"a portrait of you."
i've never been good at drawing faces. the noses always get me all tied into knots, unless i just draw it as a triangle. most people understand that it's supposed to be a nose if it's a triangle, but the art world doesn't always like that. or so i've heard. so i drew a landscape instead. i said to bob, "your portrait is done."
"that's a landscape."
"well, you're as big as a landscape."
"shut up."
"no, you shut up."
then my friend lorraine "the mountains at saint-remy" cortez showed up. so i drew a portrait of her as well.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)