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| Sunday, May 18th, 2008 |
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 This struck a chord. I've been thinking about that a lot lately. |
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 PostSecret is an ongoing community art project where people mail in their secrets anonymously on one side of a homemade postcard.      -----Email Message----- Sent: Sunday, May 18, 2008 12:33 AM Subject: "Battle" postcard. You just made mine a little bit easier. Thank you.        -----Original Message----- Sent: Sunday, May 18, 2008 2:19 AM When i saw that someone else had a countdown going I almost fell over backwards. My countdown is at 370 days until i get to run away . . . I can't wait.             -----Email Message----- Sent: Sunday, May 18, 2008 3:33 AM Subject: Fwd: "She doesn't know" secret He doesn't know that I know he knows we're getting married.  -----Email Message----- Sent: Sunday, May 18, 2008 5:14 AM Subject: you learn with every goodbye with every goodbye i feel relieved. my life begins again. i learned to love goodbyes.  Florida PostSecret Exhibit  Over 400 postcards are now on display at the Brevard Art Museum. 1463 Highland Ave | Melbourne, FL | 321-242-0737 | facebook event page Here are some exhibit comments from when the exhibit was in Canada. I flew from Calgary to see if my secret was here. It is. . . Weird - and an unsuitable display for this museum. I've been here twice already. It's disgustingly comforting to know that people share my shocking secrets. I held my breath for most of the time in the exhibit to keep from crying. I cried in the bathroom. I parked in the no parking zone to come see PostSecret.The PostSecret exhibition tour is directed by International Arts & Artists and will be traveling through 2010.  "Each of the PostSecret books gives you a window into the human soul. Sending in a post card is a cathartic experience. Laugh, cry and connect with insightful journeymen in the human experience. Read the books. Share them with friends. Subscribe to the blog." -- Amazon Reviewer, Irish Eyes All four PostSecret books are available at bookstores or Online.  |
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| Saturday, May 17th, 2008 |
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“Are you a stray-at-home mom?” the KTLA’s Leila Feinstein asked, leading in to a new story. “According to a survey conducted by Cookie Magazine and AOL, one in three stay-at-home mothers have cheated on their husbands. The reason? They don’t feel they’re getting it enough.” It, of course, is sex. My best friend Katerina and I were talking about this recently. “When I was pregnant, I felt like the epitome of womanhood,” she told me over the phone from rainy Seattle. “I was the earth goddess, paradigm of sexuality. But I was the only one who felt this way. Everyone else was like, ‘hands off! She’s about to burst!’” She’s not the only one. In a column about sex and the American mother for the afore-mentioned Cookie magazine, Lori Leibovich recounts an anecdote told by her friend Oriana: “When my son was 6 months old, I was at a stoplight and this guy pulled up next to me and started flirting, I looked at my son in the backseat. The guy noticed, quickly mouthed ‘Sorry,’ and sped off. It was my introduction to what felt like the rest of my life. As long as my son is with me and people see me as a mother, they won’t see me as a sexy, sensual being.” Still, a couple of anecdotes don’t mean women nationwide are caught in a sex crisis. I needed more information about this infamous survey, so I looked up the details of Sex and the American Mom and was surprised to find, according to The Huffington Post, that the sample was a very impressive 30,000 stay-at-home moms. My, oh, my. Even more surprising, of these 30,000 women, 77 percent said they’re not getting enough sex. “And are we to conclude that so many stray because they are not sexually satisfied?” ask Colleen Dealy and Taylor Baldwin, the mommies-turned-radio personaities who put the article together for the Huffington Post (and whose two-hour estrogen fest you can catch at Good Stuff Radio): Cheating seems to be a direct result of not getting what you need, be it sex, attention, openness, what have you. If there is a void, and it can be filled by someone else, chances are it will be.What? Really? American men have low desire? “A few years ago, I wrote a book called The Sex-Starved Marriage,” Michelle Weiner-Davis told TIME last month. “I described what happens in marriages where one spouse is desperately longing for more touch or more sex than the other. In that book, I devoted a mere seven pages to the unique challenges for women when they’re the more highly sexed spouse. I was inundated with calls, letters and e-mails from women saying, ‘Thank you so much for writing about this because I honestly believed I was the only woman in the world whose husband wasn’t chasing her around the living room.’” So Weiner-Davis decided to dedicate an entire book to the topic, aptly titled, The Sex-Starved Wife. Sounds like a best seller. But I wasn’t convinced. The implication in Dealy and Baldwin’s piece that women were cheating because American men secretly have low desire is inconclusive at best. Likewise, a ton of women may have written Weiner-Davis thanking her for seven pages of how to deal with sextarvation but that doesn’t translate to American men having low desire, either. A small article on The Huffington Post asking readers for feedback about the myth of the insatiable male sex drive featured a picture of Peg Bundy from the popular sitcom about a dysfunctional American family that ran from the late 80s through the 90s. Peg isn’t hideous and she isn’t a prude, either. Still Al doesn’t seem interested—and it’s not that he doesn’t have a sex drive. They just seem disconnected. Bingo. “A desire discrepancy, or a desire gap, is the most common problem brought to sex therapists,” Weiner-Davis says. “It’s estimated that one out of every three couples experiences this difficulty. And that really doesn’t count the kinds of hills and valleys that all couples go through, even when they have a really healthy sex life… One myth I’d like to debunk is that if a man isn’t interested in sex, it means there’s some sort of sexual dysfunction. While sexual dysfunction undoubtedly contributes to a drop in desire, what I’ve found in working with couples is that the men, it seems, turn off to sex for many of the same reasons that their wives do—emotional disconnection, underlying resentment or unresolved problems, depression, stress and so on. In fact, one of the most common reasons men reject their wives’ advances is that they feel their wives are critical or bossy. Nagging simply isn’t an aphrodisiac.” Huh. Not too long ago, in response to a piece about the apparent atrophy of sex in my marriage, my dear friend melvin_udall wrote me a home run of an e-mail that, as I have told him, will probably save my husband and I hundreds of thousands of dollars in therapy.He traced the descent into sextarvation land to the night I woke up to find my husband having sex with me. It was intrusive sex, painful and entirely about him. I called it rape. After painful discussion, we seemed to have it sorted out: consent is implied in marriage, yes, because we will have sex eventually, but going for it when the other person is not conscious is not OK. Clear? Not quite. And matters were certainly not helped when, months later, I introduced the idea of engaging in consensual non-consent sex; that is, “acting out” one such violation. Add to that talks about an interest in BDSM and you have a recipe for the most confused man alive. And then, he kissed me in front of his friends. After a couple of weeks of being too confused to come near me, he showed off his hot 25-year-old wife to his friends by kissing me like he wanted to swallow my head. This infuriated me because it felt fake in the face of the blatant lack of sex—the cause of which, at that point, I didn’t understand. And so we spiraled deeper into the mess. “Men and women are very different creatures,” wrote melvin_udall. “Most women, for example, need to be reassured that we find them to be the sexiest creature alive, even if that isn’t true. Even the most fit and thin generally have ‘ugly days’ when they need to be held and told how beautiful they are. Most men, especially traditional men, need to believe they are the providers for and protectors of their partner. Protectors do not rape their partners. If a wife accuses her husband of rape, what has she said to him? It says she does not trust him, and will not be able to trust him in the future. It says he is an awful person. MEN don’t rape. To a traditional man, especially, to claim he is a rapist, and of his wife no less is to say he is weak and not a man. All the talking in the world can happen after that, but unless that specific issue is addressed it will remain a source of anger and resentment. He has been emasculated in a way no other person could have done it to him. Now we have a man who was deeply insulted, if not completely emasculated. Shortly after comes the discussion of BDSM. His partner is now introducing him to a new, scary, minefield-ridden concept. This woman who called him a rapist is now asking to be spanked. What does one do with that? Piling on the confusion, she has experience with this practice, which he lacks. Is she not satisfied? Is she bored of me already? Am I doing it wrong? What if I get too aggressive again and she calls me a rapist, or pervert, or something else? Fast forward to the kiss you found offensive. Here is a man who has been emasculated. Can he be blamed for taking an opportunity to feel like a man in front of his friends, where the rejection he still believes is there is less likely to manifest? Maybe he just missed a passionate kiss. Maybe he misses his wife.”He had more than a handful brilliant points. Suddenly, it was all perfectly clear to me. Where before I had been dealing with a man whom I assumed was experiencing a decreased libido, I suddenly saw a man that I was sexually stifling. I’m not saying this is all my fault. Ultimately this is more complex than that. Richard has clearly expressed that having sex, kinky or not, is a lot of work for him and he’s simply not interested in investing that much energy that often when we could easily do it lazy-style, as Ovid prescribes in his Ars Amatoria: lying on our sides and barely moving. That is an issue, absolutely, and it does need to be addressed, but it is not beyond compromise. It’s entirely clear to see where the wires crossed here by my own hands. So what does one do? Weiner-Davis laments how hard it is for men to talk about these issues. But women have a hard time, too. The girls who grew up on Sex And The City were taught to expect everything in sex but never how to troubleshoot any problems. Limp dick? Slight curve? Weird fetish? Dealbreaker! Dump that looser! Plenty of fish in the sea, girl! Even Charlotte, the token traditional girl looking for Prince Charming, preferred to separate from her new husband than deal with his sexual issues. We don’t know anything about solving issues or following through. We’ve got all the expectations in the world and zero methodology. “When there is a sexual divide, each spouse waits for the other to change,” Weiner-Davis reflects in her blog at Psychology Today. “You don’t need a degree in psychology to know that this sort of standoff is playing with fire. Stalemates make marriages go down the tubes.” So what does one do? Start over. The blinding fire of passion is gone: it’s time to get to know what our partners really want, how they best think they can get it and come up with ideas about how we can provide it. “It’s sex, not f-ing brain surgery,” said Katerina to me during our conversation. I agreed with her vociferously. But maybe, just maybe we could all use a little more care in our approach. “I just have to be honest about what’s going on with my head and body,” Oriana, the woman in Leibovich’s column who felt she’d lost her sex appeal after her baby. “[My husband]’s usually very compassionate and understanding. And sometimes he’s like, ‘Okay, then will you give me a blow job?’ And to me that’s not a big deal. We try to accommodate each other. It sounds a little sterile… but sometimes that’s marriage.” Words create realities, so I’ll fight “sterile” to the death. But I’m OK with “compromise.” Let’s scrap the great sexpectations that have brought us to a standstill and focus on self-expression, both of our partners and ourselves.
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Glutton for punishment. As a promotional tie-in to the upcoming Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull release, M&Ms and Mars have released limited editions of their trademarked candies, Mint Crisp M&M's and Snickers Adventure Bar. Of course, anything remotely related to mint chocolate anything, I instinctively want. I especially love pastel dinner mints. So I reached over and grabbed a bag of the Mint Crisps M&M. As I was putting it on the counter, I spied the words, 'coconut' in the Snickers packaging. Added that to my checkout too. A few hours later, I remembered these items and decided to try the Snickers Adventure bar. Boasting of a hint of coconut and exotic spices, I carefully bit into my first bite. Not sure what to expect. First bite was that familiar Snickers taste of roasted nuts, caramel and nougat. Followed by a sweet release of coconut and then an odd, almost medicinal like spice. I still can't figure out what the spice reminds me, too much of an artificial taste. While the coconut was a sweet and nice touch, the lingering spice flavored, strengthened with each bite, was a bit overwhelming. Oddly shaped M&Ms in the white, light green and dark green resides in the Indy-themed covered bag. Lumpy circles with grey monogrammed letters and faces. The mint crisps, at first, tastes like Girl Scout Mint Thins. But with each bite, the interior rice crisps middle becomes an annoying crunch. To rid myself of both tastes, I quickly went through a half a container of Driscoll's strawberries. Sweet, plump, red-riped goodness. Now I'm ready for a nap followed by an evening out. |
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This morn, I woke to the din of NPR newscasters. It's been months since I've heard their voices -- I've been sleeping straight through. Ironically, today is the start of my first day of vacation! Staying local, visiting friends, eating at places I've been wanting to try, getting massages, and catching up on the latest movies. One of the first things I scheduled was for my haircut and color. Got some bad news -- my hairstylist announced that today would be his last day styling my hair. Sadly, he has to return to Japan -- he doesn't want to go but after inquiries with 3 different attorneys, they all came back and said the said thing, he can only return if he has a certain visa. Bummer. He told me he felt that he was lied to -- something about how the salon was supposed to sponsor his visa. At one point, I thought he was going to start crying, he looked so distraught, I didn't know what to say except that I was really sorry. When I left, I tipped him extra and wished him the best of luck. Also mentioned that perhaps one day I'll see him again. Maybe even in August as I will be in Japan. Before I left, he told me that he would only recommend one other stylist for me and told me her name and handed me her card. He said this in front of the others, even the owner. An awkward moment. I thanked him again and wished him the best. It's official, in August, I really am going to Japan. I have my receipt in front of me. I'll be flying out from JFK to Narita. We'll be visiting Tokyo and Niigata. Unlike the ease of visiting Taiwan or China, where I could slip into my passable Mandarin (though these days, it is probably questionnable), the Japanese language is one that I am clueless about. So starting in June, I'll be taking lessons at the Japan Society. While it is still months away, I'm totally eager and excited about this trip. |
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| I miss my sistwhore. | ||||||
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Tried to get her in the bowl but she wasn't having any of it. |
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Our little quarter pounder. |
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| Friday, May 16th, 2008 |
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 Her: I think I have you beat. Me: I doubt that. Her: (deep breath) Well, when I was in high school, my prom date raped me, got me pregnant, and, causa my dad, I got married causa it. Then I had a miscarriage so I was a divorcee before I went to college. He divorced me - can you believe that? Moved here, became a model. Now I throw up at least once a day so I can pay my rent and I hate, hate, hate men of every type. Can you beat that?Me: (shaking head, pause, lean in and give her a kiss on the cheek) Her: Why did you do that?Me: I dunno...thought you deserved it. (she laughed, then frowned and nodded) Didn't give her my number or ask for her's, and paid for her drink, which I never do. There's this comedian that says that children are a man's receipt; children are the canceled check that proves that we were here. The stuff you hear about happening in China is horrifying, isn't it? 22,000 to 50,000 dead with 169,000 injured. But it's actually even worse than that. With the PRC's One Child Policy, bloodlines and family lose everything. For those that lose their one child and they're too old to have kids again, they've no safety net to take care of them in their old age. Their history ends with them; they've no connection to the future. They've no child to love. Can't imagine how that must feel. My father once said that he loved us all before we were born. That didn't make sense back then. I'm getting sued (again). I'm working 12 hour days for negative returns. There's stuff I don't tell you about. But really, I got no problems. I got my life, my family, my rum, and the occasional girlie for company. It's raining here, but in my head, there're blue skies. Told you before, yeah? God gave me everything. Hope you have an amazing weekend. Music: I regret every single thing I ever said, I said those things too softly www.loganlo.com  Subscribe! |
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зажигалка с названием-СТАААААРРРР. с подсветкой, и..с духами...... два в одном. просто БИГ СТАР |
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| Deja Moo: The feeling that you've heard this bull before. | ||||||
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 Since I couldn’t celebrate Mother’s Day with my mom on the actual day, I decided to take her out to a nice lunch and do some shopping. Since I took my brother to Momofuku Ko for his birthday a few weeks ago, I decided to keep it a theme, taking my mom to Momofuku Saam for lunch. I’m thinking I’ll take my dad to Momofuku Noodle for Father’s Day next month and complete the trifecta. Saam’s hostess glibly ignored us as we waited to be seated and a runner was kind enough to take notice and clean off a table for us. Our waiter was very nice as well, but maybe the hostess thought we were just standing there for our health? At least acknowledge our presence and give a quick, “I’ll be right with you.” Anyway, on to the food: The above photo is of the Saam Bahn Mi that was really yummy. I think they used kewpie mayo on the crisp bread; really pulled the sandwich together. I haven’t been to Saam for dinner yet, but I’m hoping the menu isn’t as limited as the lunch menu.  That’s the kewpie slaw I chose as the side for my bahn mi. O. M. G. I can easily sit there and be absolutely content with just a big bowl of this stuff. Creamy with a little bite from the raw cabbage; perfect with the bahn mi.  That’s the famous Chef David Chang Pork Bun. The guy is revered for this thing. It’s supposed to be the best steamed pork bun this side of Chinatown and though it’s good, it’s not the most amazing thing I’m ever eaten. The pork belly (aka un-cured bacon) was braised until almost falling apart and stuffed in a steamed bun some places use for Peking duck. Which I’m sure is where he got the idea of smearing it with hoisin sauce and adding a bit of herb to cut the richness of the pork fat. In Cantonese pork belly is very roughly translated as five layered meat. It’s the fatty pork skin, a layer of fat, a thin layer of meat, a layer of fat, etc. And I know everyone thinks their mom is the best cook, but my mom’s made some awesome pork belly in her day. I dare David Chang to taste her version and not bow at her feet.  That’s the roasted cauliflower side I ordered for my mom’s steamed pork bun. I think what surprised me the most was that it was stone cold. I was fully expecting it to be hot. You know, roasted and hot. Isn’t that what you think of when you read, “roasted?” It was ok. Not my favorite of the meal. Both sammies came with pickles; homemade house pickles or sliced mushrooms, some cucumbers, carrots, radish, and celery. I still can’t decide about the mushrooms. They were tangy, but had an odd sensation when left on the tongue. Almost like pop rocks. It was sort of like the mushroom flesh was almost effervescent. At the end of our meal, I went to the ladies room, leaving my mom to pick at her remaining pickles. When I got back out, the dishes were cleared and my mom looked slightly bewildered. She told the runner that she wasn’t done yet, but the waiter swooped in right after and took away all the dishes. It was late in the day and they were trying to get rid of the late lunch crowd to close doors and prep for the dinner rush, but come on, you couldn’t leave the small bowl of pickles until I at least get the check? So far I’ve liked most of David Chang’s dishes in two out of three of his establishments, but I’ve had mixed feelings about his staff. I wonder if Noodle will be his third staff “strike” for me or if it’ll live up to the hype everyone seems to be heaping on this guy. |
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Товарищи! В эту субботу у "Синематографа" последний в сезоне показ, в ЦДРИ на Кузнецком мосту. Вход свободный, так что все сомневающиеся - велкам ) а еще там будет моя декорация, ага ) Все подробности - у  Леши: http://4001.livejournal.com/124347.htmlPR приветствуется. |
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| My ass speaks in tounges! | ||||||
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I got a new camera: Canon IXUS. My third. Aah. I'd been using a Cybershot; slipping back into the Canon operating system was like putting on a comfortable old pair of pants. I also got a new tripod to replace my horrendous "Gorrilapod." Never buy a Gorillapod. It ain't stable, it's hard to aim, it's not big enough, its litlle bubble legs get tangled in the camera strap, and it takes the fun out of autoretratos. No more! I saw this in a Korean Burger King (just using the bathroom, not hamburgering): dump the leftover liquid into the portal on the left, then the restaurant reuses the cups and throws away the straws and lids. Why in the fuck are fast food emporia worldwide not getting down with this system?  The coolest thing at the Leeum Samsung art museum. Inside: naught but a bunch of wack celadon pottery and, like, Rothkos.  Bibimbap looks so fine through a camera's eye! This one was done right, with a raw egg on top. I get disgruntled when it's a lame fried egg that just breaks into albuminous frags instead of leaking all over and lubricating the components.  In other news, the agency is going to send my bulimic colleague home. She was asking after laxatives the other day and my roomie directed her to the nearest pharmacy. She came back working a couple of pills free of their blister pack and plopped down in front of the TV. A few minutes later, she gurgled, "Are these supposed to be all...waxy like this?" Do I even need to say it? Suppositories. Honey, go home to your mom and get the love you need. |
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| Thursday, May 15th, 2008 |
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This night of every year, at least for the last thirteen years, has been dark, always bringing change. Usually the change is frantic; sometimes it is measured. Each year is a single footfall away from a room I never entirely left. I may not have made it very far yet, but I have made it very, very long. And that suffices. It's hot and still tonight, nearly ninety degrees. Strange for the peninsula. I'm wearing silks on the balcony, drinking iced green tea. Tired. Thinking late. It was unseasonally hot that year too. I missed much of it after the fifteenth of May, aside from that one desperate outing, but I could see it in the quality of the light through the window and hear it in the tempo of the crickets. I believe I remember opening the window one afternoon while I was embroidering and within three hours the entire room was full of summer. I don't think I liked it then. But now I believe it was probably also a very beautiful season. Odd that this is the first time I've been able to think in such a way. See, that's something as well: I like hot, still weather. May weather. This is okay. Time's passed; I'm here. Still here. There was something very wrong about that Mother's Day. I don't know what it was any longer. I think I'm getting ready to do some things I haven't done before. Nothing that would raise many eyebrows aside from my own, of course, but good things. There are a whole lot of years left to go and I'm increasingly displeased with the precedent I've set for myself during these last few. Six, is it? Seven? What loss is it if I choose an action with downside risk? I've learned a lot of great new ways to define downside risk in recent years. In fact, I've got a couple whole new spectrums of invisible downside going on here. We got a fat tail going into the infrared. We got data points all up in ultraviolet. My risk model (like all risk models) was limited by my experience of loss. I thought risk was two-dimensional. I thought loss varied only by degrees. Typical kid stuff, though you'd think 1996 would have taught me everything I'd ever need to know about loss. It's just amazing, isn't it, how the wretched, lovely, struggling human soul stands up again and again and tries again with regret and hope to walk. I think we do it because it's all we can do. We do it even without trying. We do it even when we're trying not to. As my mind narrows and shrinks and closes with age and layered little wounds, it's amazing how easily I can mesmerize myself towards sleep. The visual texture of leaves at night beneath the streetlight, the precise aroma of burning hickory wood, the remembered taste of water running on stones: these things can easily take the place of the soaring fantasies of my early adulthood. Small things. It's good. The normative statement, "I should have a good life," becomes the accepting, "I've passed ten, thirteen, twenty years." The weight of what can conceivably be done if one starts now begins to ease. Doors close. The shoulders become light. The focus returns to the moment. This particular moment is the end of May 15th, 2008. I'm good and awake tonight, though I'm also sliding towards sleep. Client meetings tomorrow; eternal behindness in both my work and personal checklists, of course. It's okay. I'm here. It's better. |
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I was just trying to log into Myspace because I am a dumb bastard and I noticed that Mudhoney had a promo on the login page. Then I tried to remember if Mudhoney was that one band with the guy who died of a heroin overdose. Because I won't be able to sleep if I don't look it up, I looked it up and it turned out it wasn't Mudhoney that I was thinking of, but Mother Love Bone. Of course, if we want to split hairs, other notable Seattle Sound bands lost members to heroin, but that isn't the point. Grunge hit Klamath Falls late, just like every other fucking thing in the universe (from cable to gangsta rap). When we did get our hands on it, it was great because it was Seattle. Seattle was far enough away from Klamath Falls but near enough to be within the realm of possibility, unlike Los Angeles or New York. Grunge was awesome because it let the entire universe know just how disaffected we were. By we, I mean me and my buddy Alicia and some other folks. Gilbertbee, you are going to have to refresh my memory, did you like that shit? Grunge also introduced me to the Riot Grrrls, which would be important throughout high school and college and into my wasted adult life. I still cannot get enough of L7, Bikini Kill, 7 Year Bitch, etc. I wish I had listened harder to those songs, because it would have saved me a lot of bullshit. Then gangsta rap happened and I was listening to Snoop Doggy Dogg and from there it was a slippery path to hell. When I visited my grandparents in Seattle, I always thought it would be awesome to go to a concert of any of the grunge bands. My parents were actually religious mullahs and never let me do anything interesting other than Catholic Catechism Development, so I had no idea what those concerts would be like. My parents did let me see Nirvana, but I was with Jesse and his mom, so my parents were assured that there would be no premarital sex. I do believe there was marijuana. By the way, marijuana use would have been far, far more acceptable than sex. I never got to see concerts, but I picked up zines and free weeklies and made collages out of the ads for the gay bars. We attempted a zine, but my mom totally bitched me out for being critical of the corporate atmosphere of Gottschalk's department store (she was an economic developer and it was her fucking job to bring business to the Klam, even if it was a 12th rate department store). Anyway, there wasn't much cool to write about so I stopped writing. The point of this story was lost long ago. The story ends after I go to college, my mom dies, I finish college and some other shit happens. |
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Was it one of Newton's laws that two solid objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time? Or is that the law of flying economy on United next to a morbidly obese man? Whether or not Newton said it, I believe it. Thus have I shied away from feeding Scully anything but "fuzzies" (teenage mice), since the girth of an adult mouse is about 4x the size of Scully's little snakey head. But again, yesterday, docbrite bade me give Scully a chance at something larger. "An anaconda can eat an antelope. You'll be surprised at what the python can manage."I thawed the smallest of the adult mice I have in the freezer, which is still absurdly large for Scully's head, but even if he couldn't unhinge his jaw and stretch his head large enough, it would still make for a good show. The process took nigh an hour, and it was tortuous and extremely fascinating. He coiled around it, seemingly to mold it into the shape that he needed to slowly chomp his way down the huge mouse body. I was the skeptical cheerleader: Go Scully! Rah-rah! You can do it! No, well, shit, maybe you can't. But you get an A for effort! Rah team! The doc was right; I was surprised. When he got all the large parts of the mouse down his gullet with nothing but the relatively small head to swallow, I was leaping around with my pompoms and and spelling "Y-A-Y" with my arms. Okay, not really, but my spirit was. Then, quite suddenly, at the end of his arduous battle, the finishing line in sight, he opened his mouth extra wide, wriggled in a different way and chucked the whole thing back up. I can't be sure, but he seemed sheepish and embarrassed about his failing, but I'm still proud of the Herculean effort. Anyway, it's back to fuzzies until he's a little bigger.     (You can see how far he got in the last pic. The fur that isn't coated with snake-slime is all that was left when he quit.) I met Ben for lunch afterwards and told him of the story. "Please don't tell me you took more pictures of that damn thing eating." "Oh hell yah I did. AND video. And I caught him throwing the thing up on video too. Wanna see it when we get home?" (Then the waiter brought the food.) |
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According to the L.A. Weekly we are doing a live DJ set on Dublab.com tomorrow! Oh no - we better start figuring out what tunes we want to drop on the dublab audience. Tune in tomorrow to find out what we come up with... FRIDAY, May 16th 7-10am: frosty, Ale, Toros 10am-12pm: Afternoon Awesome Episode 12-1pm: Mahssa 1-3pm: Kozyndan 3-5pm: sodapop & Katie 5-7pm: Eric Vallely |
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GodTube, Unintentional Hilarity One of the new people at work sent me this. On our work email. Fortunately the United States Government blocks GodTube, so I didn't have to sit there and watch it with her. I'm letting it slide this time because she is new. Next time I'm going to have to tell her a) This is a no-no and b) I'm Buddhist. If you are going to break the rules about religion, at least send me shit from the one I pay attention to. She said this video was moving and it made her cry. It made me cry too, but for different reasons. |
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It turns out I don't have Coxsackie. It's my fucking ALLERGIES. I've been sick for three days because of hay fucking fever. This is total bullshit. My body is a total asshole. |
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i will live my life as a lobsterman's wife on an island in the blue bay. he will take care of me, he will smell like the sea, and close to my heart he'll always stay. |
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| Wednesday, May 14th, 2008 |
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The lights are dimmed, the table is topped with two dozen red roses, the glasses sparkle with cider. The music playing is the allegro of Antonio Soler’s Sonata for Keyboard, No. 90 in F Sharp Major. It is, decidedly, perfect. As is the meal: glazed cod served alongside herb roasted potatoes, tomato concassé, snow peas and caramelized onions. Richard and I sit eating in silence. He’s at the head and I’m on his left (his mother sits on his right when she dines with us). I smile at him, “darling, I’m an asshole.” Just an hour before, we’d had one of those ridiculous fights about something so utterly stupid, I have to laugh writing about it or I’m likely to burst into tears at its silliness. Dane Cook has a name for fights like these: the nothing fight. It’s not a feature of people who hate each other. It’s actually a feature of people in a relationship that requires so much compromise that without the proper tools of communication, it’s easy to go insane. Hence the nothing fight. In this case, the fight was about what honey I should use in my tea. I wish I were kidding. Richard had stormed off and come back to find me in lingerie with this dinner as penitence. It was all so ridiculous, I could tell he was stifling laughter as he took a seat. It doesn’t really matter that I prefer one kind of honey and he another. No one won the argument because no one could. The fact that we had it at all makes us silly little people. So I tell him I’m an asshole. And he says he’s an asshole. And we hold hands across the tablecloth and burst out laughing. And it dawns on me that this is what marriage is, just a series of challenges where you can function as teammates or adversaries, where ultimately, the only thing that matters is getting over it and compromising so that both parties get as much as they can. I think of that quote by Montaigne, that marriage is a strange land with the peculiarity that those who do not live there want to at all cost and those who are there would gladly be banished. And I laugh because that’s so often true, even now! And yet as Richard clears the table, I think about how right this is, how for all its faults and all the messes we have made of ourselves and of each other, how much work there is still to be done in creating the proper, sturdy infrastructure of a marriage, there would be no better way to live this life but with each other.
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| Thursday, May 15th, 2008 |
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god damn, Clint, slow down. Eastwood is officially my hero. the old bastard makes Mystic River in '03, Million Dollar Baby in '04, carries home a slew of prizes for each, then in '05-'06 decides, what the hell, why don't i make two WW2 flicks at the same time! one (Flags of Our Fathers) turns out very good, the other (Letters from Iwo Jima) brilliant. and now, a year and a half later, he has The Changeling in competition at Cannes, and his next film already in pre-production. sweet jesus. 
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 Saw, smiled, and said goodbye to Jimmy Fallon today at a Pinkberry. Gotta tell ya - he is SO hot in person! I've always thought he was geeky cute on SNL, but up close and in person? HOT!! SO HOT!! Like, I was sweating HAWT! And taller than I expected. But did I mention HAWT? Usually I don't care much about celebrity sitings. Usually they're not that awesome in person. Jimmy Fallon? Way better looking than advertised. And he was nice and cool about being spotted and we were all nice and cool about spotting him. Seemed very down to earth; checking out toppings for his Pinkberry, chatting with his friend. None of that look-at-me-I'm-famous-and-I'm-gracing-yo |
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Julia's convinced i only want to see this Norwegian flick cuz the actress Viktoria Winge looks like Björk. but i swear it ain't true. 
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i can't get this incredible album out of my head. it's like the soundtrack to hell en route to paradise. click image to download "THE RIP" (do yourself a favor and strap on a good pair of cans) |
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 A happy non-duck couple at Katsuya. -- In front of our office building, we've got a giant koi pond. For several years, ducks show up in the middle of spring and hang out for a month or so. They used to lay eggs and raise ducklings there, but the building management got sick of cleaning the duck turd and got rid of them. This year it was just two ducks, a male and his wife. The pond used to be choked with algae, so the ducks rarely left the water to feed. But now that it's clean, the ducks wander over to the lawns to nibble on the grass. They'd been wandering further and further from the pond, so I wasn't too surprised when my coworker told me that the female duck was dead. She'd been hit by a car while waddling across the street and was lying on the median, where the crows had been pecking at her. While walking to lunch, I noticed that the male duck was resting next to his wife's carcass. Poor bastard probably thought she was still alive. According to my coworker, he hadn't left her side since she was killed over 12 hours ago. He was still there when I drove home. Ducks don't love, right? It's just blind instinct. Or maybe it's the same love humans experience, except ducks don't write songs or blog entries about it. |
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oh, I made a beer can chicken the other weekend pretty neat Ooohh, i've wanted to try that. how'd it taste? like chicken Har har!  |
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 Her: (picking up hairclip on bookshelf) Wear this much? Me: Was that there? Her: It's cool. (putting hairclip back) Every girl leaves something behind. Except me. I'm not going to leave anything behind. I'm getting sued again by someone else. It never ends. Tuesday night, skip fencing to see the pretty Hazel-Eyed Italian for a private party on a rooftop garden on Fifth Avenue. It's a catered affair with an open bar and we pound rum all night in between getting massages and chatting with Pat Kiernan and his wife. HEI and I duck out to catch a late night flick. The next day, she tells me she's not hung over at all. Ah, the power of rum. Wednesday night, meet up with Elle at the South Street Seaport. She'd never been either and took me out for my birthday. We walk from there a mile or so to a friend's place where we end up shooting the breeze until midnight. I tell her that most of the women I meet are usually bi-sexual. Or don't want kids. Or are 22. Or don't want to ever get married (like her). Or something. She laughs. Her: We have a strange relationship, you and I. Me: We do, don't we? What do you think of it? Her: (getting up and smiling) Bye Logan.Thursday. Wonder what the weekend has in store for us. |
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Friends LiveJournal for Hipstomp.
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indescribable.
sleepy.
chipper.
lonely.
amused.
grateful.
tired.
creative.
busy.
uncomfortable.
pissed off.
horny.
thinking.
