Now in Technicolor

Las Madrés y Los Padrés

2008-03-24T07:50:00.004-05:00

Monday, Monday

So good to me.

Monday, Monday

It was all I hoped it would be.

So, I'm here today. It's about 9am. It's ridiculous. I should be spending the morning in a nice half-doze. Why can't people naturally start their days later? What's the hurry? What's the rush? Why can't we spend as much time being alive as we can? Certainly--CERTAINLY--there's something more important to do than the doldrum of office work.

Oh Monday morning

Monday morning couldn't guarantee

That Monday evening

You would still be here with me.

But it's not that Monday is a bad day. It's completely coincidental that Monday is the first day of the work week. It could be Sunday. Why is Sunday the official week starter when it's not the first work day? What sort of logic is that? It's like calling icecream an entree but continuing to eat it as if it were a desert. And, even, calling it a desert as we call Sunday part of the weekend even though calenders convince us of its status at the beginning. I feel berated by my calender every time I include Sunday in my weekend activities.

Monday, Monday

Can't trust that day.

Monday, Monday

Sometimes it just turns out that way.

I think people would feel better if we got rid of the concept of Monday. I'm not sure how to go about doing that, though. You can't just get rid of the concept of starting the workweek. If you get rid of the day Monday then the song would be called Tuesday Tuesday. And though not as pleasing to the ears, still the same feeling attached to it. Perhaps if we absolutely said that Sunday was the beginning of the week we could come at the week with the impression that we've started it out on a positive note instead of dreading Monday we could say "Hey, we're on the second day of the week! We're doing pretty darn swell!"

On Monday morning

You gave me no warning

Of what was to be.

On Monday, Monday

How could you leave

And not take me?

People don't use the word "swell" enough. It's an underrated expression of celebration. "Gee" is also underused, as is "nifty" and "spiffy." "Cool?" "Hot?" "Fierce?" "Rad?" All so tacky. And fierce? Really? That's awful. "You're fierce!" What? No I'm not. I don't have any intention of attacking you, I promise. I'm hardly even an omnivore in the complete sense let alone someone would would be so driven by primal urges to be fierce. I have no muscle mass! No threat.

Every other day

Every other day

Every other day

Of the week is fine, yeah.

I don't know. I'm not too terribly fond of Tuesdays. It's really a useless day. It's a segue day. It's only used to get from Dreaded Monday to Hump Wednesday. It's like one of those useless walking scenes in a movie that only serves to show continuity. It's terribly boring and not at all intriguing but wholly needed to make the movie comprehendable.

But whenever Monday comes

But whenever Monday comes

You can find me crying

All of the time.

There's a disorder called Seasonal Affective Disorder where people literally become severely depressed during season in where sun isn't visible or when it's cold. They stay in their house all day and mope. And I use mope in the most sensitive way possible. Obviously they can't control it. They've surrendered their control to past events and chemical imbalances. And, to their credit, it's a lot easier to surrender.

Monday, Monday

So good to me.

Monday, Monday

It was all I hoped it would be.

But Monday morning,

Monday morning couldn't guarantee

That Monday evening

You would still be here with me.

I can't understand couples who are "attached at the hip." I think no matter how much you love each other individuals are essentially individual even if ultimately we're all part of the same energy. Thus, it's okay to have individual likes and dislikes and you don't always have to show up everywhere together. It's stressful to have to attend something just to appease your mate. And when you are hip on hip you suddenly segregate yourself from everyone else. You are no longer Jane and John you are some disturbing mutated amalgamation of Jane and John call Janohn. Janohn is a dissociative little creature who is constantly in reluctant disagreement with Janohn's best interests. Soon Janohn can't handle such passive aggressive aggression and Janohn breaks up into two weakened and pitiful personalities, broken down by failed communion.

Every other day

Every other day

Every other day

Of the week is fine, yeah.

Except for Tuesday.

But whenever Monday comes

But whenever Monday comes

You can find me crying

All of the time.

Tear ducts were fashioned to get rid of toxins from the body and to flush out your eyes of foreign bodies. If your tear ducts aren't working your eyes will become scratchy and scarred from dust and salts. I wonder if that's what happens to your being if you can't cry to let go fear, sadness, depression, anger, or even happiness. Emotions are unique reactions to human beings in the fact that they have more power over us than even instinct. I've yet to decide if this is a benefit or a handicap.

Monday, Monday,

Can't trust that day.

Monday, Monday,

It just turns out that way.

I'm not sure what's worse, the personification of imaginary concepts and nouns such as the days of the week or so freely accepting your situation as to let a Monday become untrustworthy and wallowing in the anger and conflicting emotions of it without even attempting to improve the situation.

Oh, Monday, Monday,

Won't go away.

Monday, Monday

It's here to stay

Oh Monday, Monday

Oh Monday, Monday

But if it did go away you'd understand the pure evil of Tuesday much better.

Dermatillomania

2008-03-21T08:11:00.002-05:00

One day, when I was much younger in elementary/grade school, I was supposed to go up to bat in a game of baseball. I was so nervous. I scraped my fingernail across the inside of my thumb over and over and over again. Someone asked me what I had done to my thumb. I looked at them questioningly then looked down. There was a large bubble of blood sitting attop my finger.

"I picked it," I replied.

I still don't know if I was allowed not to bat because I'd injured my thumb or because it was obvious how nervous I was.

I once saw a picture of myself from kindergarten. I had my hand up to my neck in a gesture I knew all too well. I knew what the fingers were doing without having to see them. My thumb was horizontal and my fingers were pulling the soft skin of my neck over it again and again. I knew I wasn't aware of it at the time. It was at a birthday party.

I was with my friend J. Ayala once. I was telling her a story. I had mindlessly pulled up the sleeve of my shirt and started pulling the skin over my thumb on the inside of my arm. She stopped me and asked, "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" I replied.

"Mess with your arm. Everytime you tell a story you do that."

I explained to her that I'd always done it. I didn't know why.

For a while I was able to control myself. I'd simply acknowledge what I was doing, picking my neck or my arm, and watch myself do it and eventually I could stop without the stress of telling myself "Stop that!" and feeling guilty for it.

I can't say why I do this. Most people with Dermatillomania injure themselves. I've only done that once or twice and the most common place I bleed is my lips which I've kept the picking at bay by using Aquaphor on them and preventing them to become dry enough to be enticing enough to pick. I don't really pick until it bleeds on my neck, though lately I have been entranced with scraping my back blindly of any dead skin. I have since developed more acne there as a result of oils and aggravation.

For a while I had an acne cluster on my right cheek from rubbing my fingers across the surface of the skin.

I don't know why I developed this habit. Usually it's from an event that happened or inner emotions that can't be expressed normally. I know that even if I notice I'm doing it while I'm doing it (if I'm not injuring myself) it feels almost good to have the soft skin of my neck or inner arm on the tips of my sensitive fingers. And I like the feeling of my fingers rubbing my neck there, too. I also like to roll small bits of dry skin or anything grainy in my fingers.

If you look too closely at my neck, slightly to the left there is a moderately rough patch of skin that is the result of years of subtle abuse.

I've gone past thinking that this is an odd disorder and I certainly don't think that my level of it is soon to become detrimental to my health. I've read about people who've scratched their neck so much that they had to have skin grafts and then scratched those off. I'm certainly not that bad.

But I am a bit embarassed for it. I find whenever I do say "You know, one of my oddities is picking my neck," I get a very uncomfortable response. Some people laugh and some people just don't know what to say.

But, ya know, that's how I'd react too. It doesn't really come up and it hadn't really been an issue until recently when I realized how terribly bored I was with work and started pulling at my neck skin obsessively again. I think I'm just going to soak myself in lotion.

Anyone know if they sell lotion by the gallons?

E.M.Green's guide to dealing with obsession:

2008-03-20T09:51:00.002-05:00

Step one:
Inundate your pysche with the thing you are currently obsessed about to test its stick-to-itiveness. If, after proper and abnoxious saturation of said content you still remain completely infatuated with the person, place, thing, feeling, or 80's toy in question go to step two.

Step two:
Check out the people who also dig said obsession. If you are not freaked out/disgusted by said people who dig said obsession go to step three.

Step three:
Tell other people about your obsession. Scream it from the rafters. Call for acceptance. Preach diversity in opinion. If you have not lost the entirety of your friends and/or family go to step four.

Step four:
Check if your obsession is interfering in your everyday life. Are you eating less? Are you getting thirty minutes of sleep each night? Are your eyes glazed over? Are you easily aggravated by people mentioning something even weakly related to your obsession in any form be it critical or not? Is your house difficult to navigate because of copious collecting? Are you not able to afford bills or other expenses because of your obsession? Are you forgoing doctor's visits for your obsession? Are you mutilating your body in any way that would be unhealthy for your obession? If you have not lost all touch with reality go to step five.

Step five:
Accept your obsession. There's nothing wrong with being obsessed or being a fan. If you have control of your obsession then embrace the joy and people that come with it. Write a blog about your obsession. List them. Love them. They are who makes you you. These are what make you unique and, yet, connected to people. Do not fear thoughts of your obsession interrupting your day. Simply acknowledge them and then go back to what you were doing.

And to celebrate step five I shall now list my obsessions with links (if applicable) in order of when they first come to my mind:

My Little Pony
Pullips
David Hewlett
Alan Cumming
Haikus
Independant Films (mostly with queer content)
Stargate Atlantis
Firefly

And there they are. They don't look like much now that I've typed them out but they are part of me. They make me who I am. I might have missed one, but being obsessed, one usually fails to miss.

Strattera Strut

2008-03-07T08:58:00.002-05:00

For those of you (why I refer to "you" in my journal still is a mystery to me, I've long since procrastinated too much to have anymore readers) who know me personally know I can be more than a little random. I have a feeling it's not really noticed all that much or really taken with any sort of seriousness. I have, on occassion, popped up and said something that really doesn't correlate with the current conversation or the current emotion of the day. I do think quite a bit before I speak so I avoid some of those situations unless I'm nervous.

This is a symptom of ADD. I've had ADD for a while now. It's not major and I don't claim that it prevents me from doing anything or it is incredibly impactful in my life. But it has created some problems.

I'm a horrible housekeeper. I procrastinate about everything. I don't remember conversations, people's names, or timelines in the least. I have trouble taking notes unless it's written on the board. I have trouble paying attention during any sort of performance including lectures and concerts (less so during plays and movies where there is a plot to follow). I usually don't retain information gained from lectures or concert songs.

I zone out when I'm overwhelmed. I used to sleep to deal with too much activity. I hate large crowds or group conversations. I'm a horrid shopper because instead of focusing on one thing I'll go to an item, see another item in my periphery and leap to it then leap to another without really getting the benefit of the prior inspection. It takes me forever to get out of a store this way.

And...well...etc I suppose. I could go on but then I'd lose the focus of my entry, wouldn't I? I would like to commend Strattera for it's hard and unrelenting work on my brain. It has allowed me to gain focus and internal organization more than any semenar or Sunday lesson has. It's a different world with Strattera. Items are initially individual where as before they were itinially a fuzz of activity and there was effort in making them individual.

I don't like taking pills, not generally. So I take Celexa and I take Strattera, which nullifies my statement completely. It literally made me cry when I realized that a higher dosage of Celexa would probably work better for me. I wanna say something about this--about how, if taken with proper care, medicine can do wonders. But, the truth is, I still remain doubtful of medicine (even though it's had such an effect on me).

It is possible to control your body. Medicine is a bridge to that. It's like when you have an infant who is learning to walk and the parent holds up its pudgy little arms so it stands for a few moments and taps a few tentative steps out. But sooner or later those supporting hands fade. You don't see many 30 year olds walking around with their mom holding up their arms.

It's hard to imagine being able to walk all the way from the chair to the couch right now. But I know it's possible. I've seen it done and that is my goal. But for right now I've got two hands in mine and for the first time I'm standing upright. I know how it feels. My perspective is changed. That is a fabulous thing.

What is your favorite color?

2008-02-24T09:34:00.003-05:00

I think this is the most telling thing to ask a person, I really do. It's one of those questions you got asked when you were five. You would shyly hold up a crayon or a marker or pull at your fingers while you answered or pointed to it. It was purple or blue or pink or green or something very solid that didn't matter if it was more of a pinkish purple instead of pure because if it was said it was purple then it was the best.

And then when you got older, a little older, it became a bit more complicated because suddenly you've found all these other colors that you fancy. When I was about 7 or 8 or possibly older or younger my favorite colors were of these special markers that I always used to use in after-school-care. There were the regular colors that were darker and were green and blue, black and brown, red and orange etc...but then there were these other markers that came in the same box that had the same marker shape to them but were in colors like "shocking lemon" and "electric pink" and "electric green" or somesuch. These colors were absolutely my favorite colors ever.

Whenever I went to color something I would always pull all of these bright highlighter like colors out of the box and hold them in a fist in my hand so no one else would use them. I would sit there for however long I had and just color the hell out of them. The pink was my favorite one because it was the brightest and most seeable on white paper. The green was fine except it wasn't as bright as what color the outside of the marker was. And the yellow was good until it dried up.

But then I got older. Much older. "What's your favorite color?" And after an introspective moment "Clear, clear is my favorite color. I quite enjoy the lack of color. Black is my favorite color. White, because it's all the colors in the spectrum combined." It became much more thought-out, much less spontaneous. Then when I became even older than that my favorite color became green. I'm not sure why green is my favorite color. I suppose because whenever I say it is people comment "Like your last name!" And I like that.

So this is why I think that this question "What is your favorite color?" is so important. When you get older and past the point of spontenaety and not caring what people think you answer this question with the upmost care and consideration with the idea that whatever your answer will be will somehow symbolize your as a person. So whatever your answer is to this question is who you want to be seen. And if you're spontenious with your answer then who you are is who you are. But if your answer is one in complication and a moment of inner reflection who you are is who you desire to appear.

This isn't a bad thing, in my opinion. Some people take great care in who they present themselves to be. And, in a way, that is a statement of who you are as well. And I think that's fine, as long as you're happy. As long as your happy with what your favorite color is and not second guessing that answer I think you're absolutely OK. For all that matters in the long run, anyway.

I Know You Missed My Intelligent Entries About Petty Issues

2007-06-01T10:24:00.000-05:00

So here's more:

Before House, M.D. made his role known on the small screen quiping crotchity remarks while waving his cane about there was, in print on heavy cardstock, Maxine. I haven't read Maxine in eons. I used to peruse the Hallmark (tm)(r)(c) section of the department store constantly but I've, since, fallen out of that routine.

Maxine voiced what everyone, no matter if you were a blue-haired old lady with arthritis or a scrawny 10 year old with a penchant for watching late night TV, wanted to say but had neither the wit nor courage to do so. And while Gregory House is a stunning specimen of the male gender despite (or perhaps because of) his scruffy perpetual 5 o'clock and gimp posture, Maxine is simply Maxine.

There is nothing attractive about Maxine despite her charming personality. There is no jealousy of her bathrobe, funky hairstyle, or waist long breasts (of which she mentions a time or two), but she is just herself.

And so, to satiate my inner aggrivation at the idiocy of simple life, let me share with you a few of my favorite Maxine quotes.

All I want is a little understanding. Like, when I say "Get lost, pal!" I really want you to understand that.
I'd eat more fruits and vegetables if they tasted more like microwaved burritos.
Ah, the thrill of watching kicking, blocking, tackling, running..... but enough about fall sales at the mall.
As far as I am concerned, the perfect bra is a sweatshirt.
Why don't you slip into something more comfortable...like a coma.
Well aren't you just the most adorable black hole of need.
Don't let your mind wander...it's too small to be let out on its own.
You really are as pretty as a picture...I'd like to hang you.
I'd like to give you a going away present...first, do your part.
My bra is more of a cross-your-waist.

Okay, enough of that. I'm already guilty of taking up too much space for anyone who has this journal in syndication on their friends pages more than once.

I do want to mention something about livejournal, while I've segued gracefully to that subject. Some people might be privy to what is being called "Strikeout 2007" (hoist your colors, rah rah rah, and all that rot). For those not privvy (I spelled it a different way the second time, one of them has to be correct) to this occurence:

Brad was away. Brad is the livejournal part of the livejournal/six apart corporation. Six Apart CEO what'shisface smiling smugly on his lj icon was taking his place. Some anti-pedophile group sent a complaint to livejournal about there being pro-pedophile activity on many livejournals. Six Apart CEO (lets call him SAC) said, "Alright, we'll just delete every person with a keyword of incest, pedophile, or any indication of violence or rape in their interests." And so they did, with no former warning. Rumor has it (as rumor often has control of many things) that millions of journals were deleted in a generally poor and haphazardly way.

SAC's actions caused the, sorry, suspension (not deletion) of a few support groups for rape victims and a dog gone good deal of fictional journals. Personally, I could care less about all of this going on, mainly, because I wasn't affected and haven't been a regular visitor of LJ until I started playing Max Headroom in arrivals_only and tried to continue to play Ophilia Whitaker in kit_kat_klub. But it fascinates me the government of the internet.

Even though it's been around for a terribly long time the internet as a means of community, communication, and information is still in its infancy. People who run larger companies, like SAC does, are flying by the seat of their pants on how to handle the democracy and morality of being a notable online company. We're not talking websites of large real-world companies (like Wal*Mart's website), but companies who have all of their services available online (like blogging sites and E-bay). We are entering a new age of just about everything. Not many people under 30 who live in even a modestly urban community fail to have an email account at the very least but most of the time sharing with it a screenname of some messaging system and an online blog to share their most witty, interesting experiences--or just crap like I put up.

This new online world fascinates me! I remember back in the day when all you could really experience on a computer was cheesy games of golf, microsoft paint, solitaire, and Oregan Trail. I didn't get my first computer until I was well in highschool and we STILL have that computer today!

I wonder how much longer this freedom to experience everything online is going to last before the big communication and media companies like Comcast or AT&T/Bellsouth will latch onto the web and make it their own and everyone else's for a considerable fee, censoring those used-to-be free speech sites. Until then, I'm practicing, in depth, my freedom of speech. I suggest everyone else do the same.

Type away, young warriors. For soon this land, too, will be poached with a corporate flag. But before that day comes we can celebrate what was as what is now.

All Mourn the Death of the Inflatable, Plastic Palm Tree!

2007-04-27T09:44:00.000-05:00

Coming up the walkway to the building I saw the oddest sight. In the courtyard there was an overturned inflatable, plastic palm tree. You know, like one of those you buy at Party City in the "Luau" aisle aside the grass skirts, leis, and fake coconut bras; right above the ukulele that you can't play because the strings are just big, plastic, stupid-heads. Not that I have anything against fake ukuleles.

But to continue with my vision:
It wasn't only the fact that in the smack dab middle of the courtyard rested a dying inflatable plastic palm tree but the fact that around the perimiter of the grassy island was yellow streamers tied to various posts and table legs along the way so that from a distance it looked like it was yellow caution tape--a murder!

People were wandering around as if it didn't matter to them but--oh no! I knew what had taken place! It's one thing to hate the idiotic summer luau theme, with its tiki torches and harry cross-dressing men in tangled wigs, plastic adorned leis, grass skirts, and genuine coconut bras hulaing to corny music only The Ultimate Luau CD 1983's greatest hits can offer, but to murder in rage a defenseless inflatable plastic palm tree is going beyond hatred to insanity. What has this novelty decoration ever done to you except exist in its design as a cheesy, yet mildly retro, corner lerker sometimes adorned with clearanced christmas lights and always equiped with complementry inflatable repair kit?

Now, no suspects so far in this case but rest assured I'll keep updated accounts of any suspicious activity. I might not let this one slide so easily. I have an uncle that's inflatable.

currently: quirky

current piece of writing: "and miles to go before I sleep"

The Minutes Before the Moment

2007-04-20T10:50:00.000-05:00

11:50am
The fake woodgrain of my desk is the only thing I can think about writing about. An old SONY fm/am radio sits with its silver antennae pointing east.
11:51am
I am surpised at how few words I can think to write in a minute. How my mind ticks so slowly through the seconds and my fingers are waiting with bated breath for the next smart thing to come out of my mind.
11:52am
The phone rings.
11:53am
Emily isn't coming in today because she's sick. She's not been here since Monday. There are two things to copy and a video to take back to the media center in her box.
11:54am
A cinnamon roll sits 3/4s eaten in my new tupperware container from my new lunchbox. I can't think of anything amazing to say. It's six minutes until--
11:55am
I'm starting to think that writing minute by minute might not have inspired the creativity I thought it would. All I can think, with five minutes till, is of the minutes in the lives of 33 people before seeing the world as it was for the last time. It's a depressing thought--but perhaps they're happy despite it all.
11:56am
I am stumped. Minutes should mean so much more and last so much longer than they do. If I were forced to live life minute by minute--I think I'd rush around so much I'd forget to see. And yet,
11:57am
People are talking in the halls. Students are gabbing rushing through the corridor in a slow gait. The clock on the wall is a little slow or fast. People are thinking, I can feel their thoughts. Some people aren't, and I can feel
11:58am
A minute lasts too long. People can think too much in a minute. They can second think, rethink, stop thinking, breath in and out enough to revive, stop breathing
11:59am
The boss called noon early according to my clock.
12:01
So I waited another minute. It's weird because I could still hear people talking.
12:02
Even though I could feel people pause.

Flying with one good wing.

2007-04-19T08:45:00.000-05:00

What's more annoying than a gnat? A gnat with only one good wing. The little critter was limping on my desk, pouncing across the list of teachers, their corresponding offices and phone numbers not five minutes before. Everytime it would attempt to fly it would do a loop and end up right back where it was. It's little gnat-y body would circle around in a seemingly confused sense and try it again only to find that for all its frantic trouble it, again, ended up in a painfully similar place to where it started. It walked around flipping and flopping desperately until it flew off the ledge. The first time it did this it found the desk again but the second time it was hopelessly in mid-air. It performed a jumble of loop-d-loops and frantic twirling like an airplane with one engine cut who is desperately trying to compensate by flying it circles. Perhaps more like a one man boat with one oar, which he keeps paddling on only one side.

The gnat, in mid-tailspine, spiralled around my head (as only gnats, injured or not, can do) before it disappeared from my periphery all together. For all I know it could be on top of my head right now or dying in the dust-ridden carpet below.

I suppose if I were a more predictable writer I'd analogy the flight of the limping gnat with our own futile journey through life. I'd pick out specific instances in my life in where I found myself twisting and turning in mid-air just to land back in the same place I started. But really, honestly, and truly my inspection of a gnat was just that. It was nothing more than a creature who seemed to be having a fit about a broken wing and who thought it's only purpose in this life was to fly, whether it be in frantic circles or straight lines.

Sometimes a gnat is just a gnat.

currently: extrospective

current piece of writing:
"Not only don't I know who I am, but I'm very suspicious of people who do know who they are. I am sometimes ten or twelve people a day, and sometimes four or five people an hour."--Tom Baker, actor best known for Doctor Who (4th doctor)

The Monkees meet the Beatles meet the Fraggles meet your craziest acid trip.

2007-04-18T12:26:00.000-05:00

What can you say about The Doodlebops ? This kid's show features a multi-colored cast of three. Starting out as rough cuts in the first season in costumes described as "malfunctioning" and rightly so. Frumpy ill-fitting clothes paired with badly made "ear hoods" clearly denotating where the actor's face ended and the hood began, the show has improved greately since its conception in 2005. Season two saw an array of changes, including better fitting costumes and a complete throwout of the embarassing ear accessories. The characters finally became real.

Deedee, played by Lisa Lennox, is the slightly bossy older sister. She's pink. I mean, yes, she wears pink but she IS pink. She is an experienced musician (as are they all) specializing in the keyboard and keytar (the proof that crossbreeding instruments should really be more restricted, though Deedee's keytar adornments like pink pom poms and pink paint do add a certain charm to an instrument otherwise only worthy to bald men in hawaiian shirts playing in 80's tribute bands) I approximate Deedee's character age to be somewhere around 9 or 10. The actor is 24/25. Her style falls somewhere in the 70's, sporting hip gogo boots and a flip up pink hairstyle with headband. Her dress is fringed in a pianoesque keyboard print. Though Deedee's tendancy tends to be bossy, her heart is always in the right place.

Rooney is the brainy middle child who is blue. He is played by actor Chad McNamara who's dancing would put any broadway performer to shame. Previously Chad had been in a role in the HBO (or was it Showtime?) show "Queer as Folk," whose central characters are a few gay men going about trails and tribulations that only gay men can go through. This does not, by default, imply that Chad himself is gay. Besides, it doesn't matter either way but I thought I'd address the issue as some of the Doodlebop naysayers are quick to point out that Rooney is certainly the gay doodle akin to how the purple Tinky Winky with the upside down triangle on his head was also gay. Rooney plays a guitar that would impress Jimi Hendrix. (Though none of the actors play the instruments in concert because of certain costume restrictions, mainly their bulbous finger gloves and the fact that they also have to dance and sing) He invents things and so it is only right that his guitar is pimped out in knobs and gauges. His dress is one of a hippy rastafarian beatnik. His wig is the perfect representation of dredlocks. Precariously balanced in the heap of dreds is a red barret with a blue musical note on it. His outfit is a blue pair of overalls with a guitar wrapped across diagonally from right shoulder to left knee. I guestimate Rooney is supposed to be around 7, 8, or 9. The actor is 23/24.

Then there is the hearthrob of five year olds everywhere. Moe is played by Jon Wexler. And Jon is, for all intents and purposes, hot. I, personally, don't find any of the doodles particularly hot even "unmasked" via www.dontpulltherope.com. Let me rephrase that. They're very attractive but I have no illusions of dating them at any point. But Moe is the eyecandy. He is the AJ and the Nick Carter. 5-39 year olds (no judgement here) have dreams about this little doodle everyday. Of what I've heard, Jon is a pretty shy guy. And so, if I had any drooling to do about his tight butt or his enigmatic smile I'd hold it back. Besides, I'm a Deedee/Rooney girl, myself.

Moe is yellow and has a mop of red/orange hair. He plays the drums and breaks. No, he doesn't randomly crash into things. He dances, he breaks. He's a bboy. Jon is a bboy and so is Moe. He sends 5-8 year olds spinning round and round on their carpets every weekday and weekend morning. He's probably caused the majority of carpet burn injuries. Moe is the youngest of the group, attributing to slightly less mature actions such as yelling and getting in people's spaces and expounding stories beyond their actuality. He hides at the beginning of each show as Rooney and Deedee try and locate him. He also has an infamous fetish for a rope in which he pulls each episode to result in a drenching of water. Luckily, I think this particular water scene is prefilmed and used again and again otherwise Jon would probably be sporting a continuous case of pnemonia. Moe would probably be around 6 or 7. He's that kid who used to interrupt everyone else to share his opinion, a bit off, a bit rambunctious. Jon is 22 years old, fittingly the youngest of the actual ages as well. And, as a said before, Jon is ironically shy compared to his character--shyness being a thing I can more than relate to.

Now you may be reading this (or you may not be reading this) and be thinking--what is all this? Why is E.M.Green suddenly enamoured with this kid's show? Why, furthermore, is she writing about this kids show when more important things are going on in the world like mass killings and floods? And I will answer you this: The Doodlebops is probably one of the best shows on tv now. It's certainly better than American Idol and So you Think you Can Dance?

It's about fun. Even if you are laughing because it is the most ridiculous thing you have ever seen you can't help but smile while watching the rambunctious siblings rush around and perform concerts. The songs aren't oversimplified and are, for the most part, without cheese. These are talented people in this series, intelligent people.

So, when you find yourself getting bogged down or sacrificing your better half for a good dousing of self-pity or even in the face of unbelievable tragedy for a moment allow yourself a temporary escape. Surrender yourself to when you were 5. Watch a rapping hippy throwback from the Sergeant Pepper video busdriver and a bee-bopping soulful black woman and an array of puppeteered characters and relent your body to dance foolishly and freely beyond the bounds of mournful workdays. Don't worry, start with Season 2 if the funny ears and bad costumes bother you too much. You can almost see Lisa's goreous figure in the new costume. Naysayers will call them gay (as if such a term is an insult) and claim themselves superior over such tomfoolery, but I am proud in knowing that I take myself with the seriousness of a preschooler of the universe. And, in a less introspective light, it certainly saves me the money I would otherwise have to spend on hallucinigenic drugs to get the same effect.

currently: fluffy

current piece of writing:
"I like to describe the show as a live-action cartoon. We obviously are drawing references from a number of live action shows. And we crossed it with elements from Pee Wee's Playhouse and The Banana Splits and all sorts of wonderful things from our childhood. My background is in animation. I used to work for The Walt Disney Company and came up through the ranks in Saturday morning cartoons and I bring that to it." --Jamie Waese, creator of the Doodlebops talking with "interactive DAD" in this article.

Is Birth Null When You're Dead?

2007-03-20T12:49:00.000-05:00

P.S. Carter died a few months ago. Today is her birthday. I don't know what to think. Should a birthday still be celebrated a la the beautiful collection of flowers sitting more than a foot high on my desk top for everyone to see in celebration...?

Ya gotta wonder if it's a little moot to celebrate the anniversary of the physical appearance of someone to the world. I mean, there they are, dead and doing whatever dead people do and they don't have cake or presents and it just seems a little...

Well I dunno. Happy birthday? Congratulations on living how long you did? Sorry bout the whole death thing. Do they serve cake in heaven? I don't think a corpse would look very good with a pointy paper hat atop its head. But...

It's just days like this we can't help but remember. The lifespan of our friends is shorter than those of strangers no matter how long they live in comparison. It hurts, and it's supposed to. Don't argue with the feeling. Don't say a stab in your back tickles, because it doesn't.

Ceremony is addictive. People are addictive. Friends are addictive. They're common. They're something that's been strung into your memory like fishline through a column of glass beads. If someone takes your friends away everything comes crashing down and the glass beads break into fragments. You do your best to pick it all back up but glass it sharp. It hurts. It's supposed to hurt. Without the hurt we'd never know anything was wrong.

If you take away the keystone from an arch you can't expect the rest not to come falling down on your head and you can't pretend it hasn't. Even animals have a pattern. If you have a pet try altering your schedule. See if your cat doesn't give you a hassle or your dog whimper in confusion.

Here's the thing. I miss P.S. Carter. I miss L. Livesay. I miss my grandfather. My mind misses them. My existence misses them. I've never been one for habit. Everything varies and changes. But don't take away my fishline. That's just mean. I've got pretty beads on that. That bit of line had a job. I don't go cutting up your pretty things.

I don't know if I have enough glue for this. Is there a metaphorical into literal supply store in K-town?

currently: Not quite right for the job.

current piece of writing:

Depression Impression

by Corey Johnson

Depression impression
Seclude and re-lube
Ignite, insight
Insert and repeat.

Johnson, Corey. "Depression Impression." Comp. Keith Norris. Ed. Nick Sewell. Imaginary Gardens (2007).

An arts and literary journal published by PSTCC.

don't overthink it.

2007-03-19T14:19:00.000-05:00

This morning I woke up in my recliner in the living room.

I went to the bathroom after watching a cartoon. I took a cleansing pad and ran it over my nose, cheeks, chin, and forehead. I pushed my hair over to the side and clipped it with a green barette. I gathered up free samples of makeup that my mom recieved in the mail and went back to my bathroom and looked in the mirror. I put lipgloss on my eyelids before realizing it was lipgloss. I then put it on my lips. I put "translucent" powder on. It was a pale peach despite its claims to the contrary. My inside commentary was unimpressed by the show. Mediocre performance lacking substance. I brushed my teeth.

I went to work. Nothing seemed particularly special. It was one of those days where red looked just as impressive as gray. It was one of those days that you realise just how mundane the overall atmosphere of life is: how repetitive, how predictable, how judgemental, and how boring.

I'm a fangirl by trade. I'm "obsessed with obsessions."-J.Zuniga I never keep one for too long before it drops by the wayside. I have trouble paying attention and I have trouble keeping interest. My inspirational sparks come with a complementary pan. Not even a pan that you pay for legitimately with your purchase but a prepurchase enticement like one of those really small free knives that the kiosks will give you in the mall to convince your to buy the whole collection.

But while I'm sailing that spark of obsession or inspiration I'm true to it. I lap it up like a starved puppy. If I kept the obsession long enough I'd build enough steam to paint shirts and signs in celebration of it. But it never gets to that level. I might do a paper drawing or two, but never beyond.

The road block is, when planning something extrodinary, is that I overthink things. I live in the future of the event. I get myself worn out and bored with it before I've even laid the first stone. I predict how things will rise and fall and ultimately decide it's better to have not tried and not failed than to run the risk of catastrophe. I not only look before I leap but I imagine that I've already lept and broken a leg. I can literally talk myself out of anything.

I'm planning something. I was exchanging messages with Sxip Shirey just a few moments ago (how odd that is to say...I feel a bit fangirly for it). He has this amazing video on youtube right now:
Sxip Shirey playing bowls with red marbles.

I replied to his video with a few haikus. I know that youtube doesn't allow ample space in which to build a large poem and I do like the simplicity and hidden complexity of a haiku.

He responded to me saying "The best response to art is more art."

In my haphazardly bumbly way I responded with an idea that there needs to be an exhibit where in a piece of art is put on show and throughout the term of the exhibit other artists put their own art up as a response to the initial art.

In response I got something to the effect of "go ahead and do it," as if giving me permission to express myself. It's much different saying it like that than saying "Do it!" because it's a suggestion, an allowance as apposed to a direct order. I'm very adverse to order. I don't take it very well. Unless I'm completely clueless or I have no passion in my profession I usually will not take order in my everyday life.

I told myself, I think I'll do this, then. We volleyed a few comments back and forth. I bounced a few ideas off of Sxip Shirey. Notice how I use his full name? That's the fangirl in me. It's flabbergast worthy to say I chit-chatted with someone who I admire. It'll pass. But, for now it's perpetuated by the fact that I keep on repeatidly getting inspired by this man. I try and remind myself he's just another schmuck like everyone else. It's not quite sticking yet, I'm afraid. I fear our meeting again. I might explode out of my eyeballs at this point.

At any rate, all fangiggling aside, the last message he left me carried very important words "don't overthink it." I do that. A lot. As I've mentioned before (I'm hardly redundant...).

The conclusion to this (it's here somewhere) is that if there are any artists who would like to participate in this planned gallery (of a sorts) please feel free to contact me via this entry. Whatever comment you put here will be sent directly to my email. It helps a great deal if you're from K-town, TN. If not and you feel incredibly inspired despite it, we'll figure something out.

This is my spark. I've no clue how it's going to turn out and I'm trying my darndest to keep it that way.

currently: A bit gassy, actually.

current picture:

I don't believe in miracles. You sexy thang.

2007-03-13T23:42:00.000-05:00

I find myself at a sort of precipice. Well, maybe it's not so much a precipice as an extreme of a state of being. I have moments that are short lived like the spikes on a heart monitor where I am in ultimate committment (or noncommittment in this case) of an idea or way of living. Right at this moment I don't believe in anything. I don't believe in God nor Jesus nor Miracles nor aliens nor a higher state of being. I don't believe in the power of dreams or the monster in my closet. I am sterile to it.

It's not even an uncertainty (though it will be tomorrow). It is a definite decision (and it is a decision, not an epiphany, just a decision) that I just don't believe it anymore. I don't disbelieve it. It's not even on my radar for consideration, I think, is a more proper way to put it. Maybe it's the fact that I'm too lazy for the energy it takes to believe in things I can't otherwise see.

I don't think I've mentioned this before in this blog but there is a plague of depression running through my genes. As if depression is a disease and I suppose it is, brainwise. Mother Green has it and Father Green does as well. I suppose saying my entire family is a bit neurotic is a cop-out of a sorts as everyone else's family is mostly neurotic as well. I'd chance to say that the entire country of the U.S. has some sort of depression developed from the plethora of activities available to give momentary happiness.

I've had momentary happiness several times in my life. I've never really gone through a long stretch of constant contentment, though. Not many people have. I've never really felt confident in the strides of my life at any point. I'd like to think there was at least someone out there living life in a way that made them content and that their default emotion was acceptance or forgiveness or something of the sort of satisfied feeling that I never really remember rightly experiencing.

I think my default emotion is apathy, to be completey honest. Maybe there's an underlying sort of malignant doubt lingering in it which really is a dangerous way to be. Doubt is about the worst emotion right under fear (they go hand in hand, going steady I hear) to have, I believe. It causes you to second guess your best intentions. It's sort of like if you're in a car heading toward a wall and you're thinking, "I should stop! Wait, should I?" and before you've balanced the pros and cons you're tomato puree in a ziploc baggy.

And I suppose I just don't care anymore. I'm bored, but I'm so doubtful of myself that I don't realize how bored I am and so it seems like I'm living a very exciting life at times as my body is always playing on pretend threats to my well-being but my mind is stagnant and dying, turning gray and succumbing to others opinions. I was always a people pleaser anyway. It was always, if I keep them happy I don't have to face the consequences to me of them not being happy. I was introverted and self-conversational. I told myself stories and to keep myself attentive I made them more and more exciting. My internal entertainment has followed quite nicely with the external worldly entertainment of sensationalism and over-exageration and repetitive story lines. I'm living in syndication.

currently: Oh ho hum with it.

current piece of writing:
NEW! Gift Bears by Boyds (r)
A clever choice, lovable plush delivers your gift card, phone card, or cash. Fully jointed, 5" beribboned bears each present an embroidered felt holder.
Happy Birthday 6.99
You're the Best 6.99
-Colorful Images (r) Unique Personalized Products, Home De'cor & Gifts catalogue.

Escapism!!!

2007-03-06T15:27:00.000-05:00

What war? Where? What are you talking about? Economical distress? I'm sorry, I can't hear a darn word you're saying, man, over that police officer shootin' up the bad guys. Look at this guy cut open this dead guy. It's fake but, man, that's gross. Dude! They're fighting over a bottle of soda! That's messed up! I love reality TV. Oh my Gawd! Aliens from outer space! Man, that's so friggin' fake. Look, I can show you how they do all that crap on my computer. I just downloaded this illegal copy of "Make Really Impressive Graphics in Movies: Fug up your computer at the same time." It rawks!

Dude, that chick just died, let's fight her baby's daddy's custody war. War? No, I've never heard of it. Hey man! Friggin' dancing friggin' penguins dude! They're friggin' dancin'! So cute. Dude, chick looks bad with her pinball noggin' stickin out, all bald and such. First she shows her hoo ha and now this? She's messed up. Makes me happy I'm not in any distress. Like that. It's not like my country's at war or anything. It's not like I can't hardly make the finances to pay for the basic necessities let alone that new dvd box set of that show I will watch many times until I can satisfy myself that life is okay again.

I could buy some shoes, that would help. I've wanted another pair of converses. Of chucks. You know, all stars. Like the cool people say. I can't deny that in the back of my mind I know that something isn't quite right, but I can't quite inspire myself to check out what it is. Seems like things are falling apart, but I can't figure how to put them back together again while I'm watching this ad(vert[tisement]) for super sticky never let go glue. Isn't it wierd, in those commercials, how the guy is talking more about how the glue can hold him up by his worker's helmet at some insane height from the ceiling and that's the thing you remember more than anything? But I can't remember them ever showing a shattered vase being put back together. It must be more important to hold onto things that are hard to keep than put back together something that's broken, I imagine.

I've been eyeing this pair of pajamas on sale but I let the sale pass because they're a pair of pajamas, something I hardly wear anyway. I also let the sale pass on a pair of shoes because they were for novelty purposes. I bought a mousepad the other day and a clock. I don't know why. I want to take the clock with me to England and the mousepad has this large question mark over it like it's in perpetual pondery of its existence. I suppose if I was a mousepad I would be, too. You can never go anywhere but you help to protect and inspire someone else's journey.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to watching TV and illegal shows off of video upload sites. Well, the shows aren't illegal, the downloading of them is. I feel like the last few days have been a scrambling away from the inevitable fire/flood/put your own metaphor for possibly catastrophic change here. And I quite like it how it is, now. I won't in a few days. But for right now it feels really good running away.

currently: on the edge of an ephiphany

current piece of writing:

Piece selection inspired by J. Locke

As a Wife Has a Cow: A Love Story, by Gertrude Stein

Nearly all of it to be as a wife has a cow, a love story. All of it to be as a wife has a cow, all of it to be as a wife has a cow, a love story.

As to be all of it as to be a wife as a wife has a cow, a love story, all of it as to be all of it as a wife all of it as to be as a wife has a cow a love story, all of it as a wife has a cow as a wife has a cow a love story.

Has made, as it has made as it has made, has made has to be as a wife has a cow, a love story. Has made as to be as a wife has a cow a love story. As a wife has a cow, as a wife has a cow, a love story. Has to be as a wife has a cow a love story. Has made as to be as a wife has a cow a love story.

When he can, and for that when he can, for that. When he can and for that when he can. For that. When he can. For that when he can. For that. And when he can and for that. Or that, and when he can. For that and when he can.

And to in six and another. And to and in and six and another. And to and in and six and another. And to in six and and to and in and six and another. And to and in and six and another. And to and six and in and another and and to and six and another and and to and in and six and and to and six and in and another.

In came in there, came in there come out of there. In came in come out of there. Come out there in came in there. Come out of there and in and come out of there. Came in there, come out of there.

Feeling or for it, as feeling or for it, came in or come in, or come out of there or feeling as feeling or feeling as for it.

As a wife has a cow.

Came in and come out.

As a wife has a cow a loves tory.

As a love story, as a wife has a cow, a love story.

Not and now, now and not, not and now, by and by not and now, as not, as soon as not not and now, now as soon now now as soon, now as soon as soon as now. Just as soon just now just now just as soon just as soon as now. Just as soon as now.

And in that, as and in that, in that and and in that, so that, so that and in that, and in that and so that and as for that and as for that and that. In that. In that and and for that as for that and in that. Just as soon and in that. In that as that and just as soon. Just as soon as that.

Even now, now and even now and now and even now. Not as even now, therefor, even now and therefor, therefor and even now and even now and therefor even now. So not to and moreover and even now and therefor and moreover and even now and so and even now and therefor even now.

Do they as they do so. And do they do so.

We feel we feel. We feel or if we feel if we feel or if we feel. We feel or if we feel. As it is made made a day made a day or two made a day, as it is made a day or two, as it is made a day. Made a day. Made a day. Not away a day. By day. As it is made a day.

On the fifteenth of October as they say, said anyway, what is it as they expect, as they expect it or as they expected it, as they expect it and as they expected it, expect it or for it, expected it and it is expected of it. As they say said anyway. What is it as they expect for it, what is it and it is as they expect of it. What is it. What is it the fifteenth of October as they say as they expect or as they expected as they expect for it. What is it as they say the fifteenth of October as they say and as expected of it, the fifteenth of October as they say, what is it as expected of it. What is it and the fifteenth of October as they say and expected of it.

And prepare and prepare so prepare to prepare and prepare to prepare and prepare so as to prepare, so to prepare and prepare to prepare to prepare for and to prepare for it to prepare, to prepare for it, in preparation, as preparation in preparation by preparation. They will be too busy afterwards to prepare. As preparation prepare, to prepare, as to preparation and to prepare. Out there.

Have it as having having it as happening, happening to have it as having, having to have it as happening. Happening and have it as happening and having it happen as happening and having to have it happen as happening, and my wife has a cow as now, my wife having a cow as now, my wife having a cow as now and having a cow as now and having a cow and having a cow now, my wife has a cow and now. My wife has a cow.

The Weir

2007-02-19T14:44:00.000-05:00

It seems as if the theme of my weekend has been storytellers.

The Weir is a play that is currently going on at the black box. I am in unabashed love for this play. It has no plot but is surrounded by stories. And, of course, I cry during it all because it wouldn't be me if I didn't cry during a play that supports crying in its dialogue. I close my eyes and just have myself a good weep despite my usual goofy, snaggle-toothed grin.

I saw this play two times. With the help of my expertise pillow and program handing out skills I was able to see both times for free (thus supporting my one play per month quota). The second time I saw it imagine my shy surprise at being invited to Cha-cha's afterword with all of the fabulous actors I'd just spent an hour and forty five minutes oggling at. It's like you've just seen Independence Day and Will Smith invites you for coffee with the gang right after. Imagine me with Will Smith having coffee after seeing him not minutes before smash the head in a few aliens and save the world.

Alright, so perhaps this was on a bit of a smaller scale. But I tend to exagerate. I'm a storyteller myself, after all. I think the most suseptible person to my stories is me, unfortunately.

But digressing back to my outing with the cast, I've never been invited to do something like this before. I know this sounds a little petty, but as far as I can bloat my ego there has never been any reason for me to stay beyond the initial production, let alone be in any presence of something so community based as the cast and crew of a production of any sort. It would have been nice, though, if I'd been able to hear anything being said during our stint at Cha-cha's.

You must know something about Cha-cha's. It is a bar and restaurant with more than sketchy decorations. Your eyes lead unevenly to the staggered wickerish curtains. Foot width, meter long curtains...bits is what I'd call them...chunk themselves in a straight line separating the establishment in an incredibly awkward way with no seen logic about it. Some of the booth backs are rather frightening, looking like huge plush backboards to four postered beds. Their colors range from pea-green to yellowish and redish hues. It's like a rainbow of disasterous design choices.

But back to the conversations that I did not hear, not that they were pointed at me. And, to be honest, I've much prefer listening with bated breadth to various lines of wit and memory than having to produce them. You see, they had this band at Cha-cha's. Lot's of drums and symbals. Very nice. If it were outside.

I had a bit of a low point, though, when I realized that there was no one available at the table to support my appreciation for the female figure. There I was goggle eyed at some very attractive women that I could only see because, though it be cliche, there's no cliche like a good number of male actors are homosexual. And with no obvious lesbians there I figured I was on my own in spying a few very nice bodied women.

Which reminds me, laughing shrilly and singing, nay, yelling your friend's happy birthday song does not an attractive woman make. And no matter how many times you see women with over-gelled "wet" looking hair, it is never terribly attractive. Because she'd be very nice looking if I knew that I could get my fingers through her hair.

Oh, but I've been missing out on the best parts haven't I? Imagine going from seeing actors protraying patrons in a bar to sitting down with these actors in an actual bar portraying what one can only hope are themselves. As I said before, I couldn't hear head nor tail of what they were saying, but it was quite a treat. That sounds a bit too much like I was watching animals in their natural habitat, but I truly don't mean it to come off as such. I suppose I tend to get starstruck. Even though I know that people are people are people, if Sean Connery showed up at your doorstep I gaurantee you the last thing that would be running through your mind would be "Oh, he's just an average joe, then." Then again, if Sean Connery showed up at your doorstep there would be more interesting questions pondered, I suppose.

Anyway, to straight-jacket the subject back into my entry, everyone was so very...well normal. And I think that's fantastic. I wouldn't want Finbar to really be a rather snotty manchild, sacchrine sweet, bitter sort of person. In fact, Tony (who plays Finbar) has continued to prove the accolade that people who play the more obnoxious or evil characters are generally very sweet. And, perhaps, the only reason I pick out Tony is because he smiles like one of my favorite actors, Alan Cumming. I've seen Tony before somewhere, I think, before this play. And if I haven't I could just pretend I had. I could pretend I were part of the culture.

Who I'd like to thank, if I were to thank anyone, is Amy (who plays the only woman in the play) for being so very open with me despite my timidness to step into this sort of seemingly forbidden bond the actors all had. I could get lost in her fake Dublin lilt for days. It's one of those innocent little attractions where nothing will come out of it except the simple appreciation for one existing beside you in the world.

At any rate, I very much appreciate the invite and feel very priviledged to rub shoulders with those elite, and painfully normal, actors.

Go see The Weir.

Last weekend coming up!

Now!!!

currently: Cookie digesting

current piece of writing:
(from the journal I was scribbling on in the bar)

The only reason I EVER go to bars is when I'm invited. But the perk of this is the excuse I immediately get to have a cloudy memory of the event. I don't drink, but I can always blame the smoke. It's somehow satisfying to not have the responsibility of being part of a conversation, but having all the perks, thereof, of hearing it. Except for the insistent drumming, this might be very close to perfection.

Feb. 17, 2007
EMG 11:00-ish.

It's when you look through people.

2007-01-31T11:54:00.000-05:00

She was bundled in cool colors keeping her warm against Tennessee's snappy dry cold. She smiled at me, but it was more of a grimace, her teeth more of a grit than a grin. You could tell, though, that she wanted to smile. She smelled richly hallow. It was a sort of smell that lingered in my nostrils after she left and before she came back again.

Her face was folded around her mouth and eyes, envelopes of squeezed flesh. She told me that she needed to learn. I said, here is a road sign covered in red tape. We'll peel it off together. In the end, she was thwarted by mischeduled madness, dislocated hours. She looked at me and I could hear her throat vibrate as it held back the very ocean that put her city to ruins. She said, I need to call someone.

I'll never forget that watery stare, as if she were still drowning, waiting to be saved.

currently: Affected

current picture: to be added at a later date.

Don't Close Your Eyes

2007-01-24T16:11:00.000-05:00

Prologue:

Dear Google,

I changed to the new blogger blogging thing because I knew that eventually I would be tossed into the new blogger regardless of my desire to stay in old, simplier concoctions of blog. I like familiarity. I like regularity. I like to be able to get to the blogger site on the first try. It's the little things, really.

The good people at blogger.com promised easier access to the Google Blogger. They promised a shiny, new dashboard. They promised other stuff that sounded really good. But what did EMGreen get? She got told to repeatidly try back in 30 seconds. Because Google couldn't handle it. You listen to me, Google. I had a great entry...a wonderful entry in my head. And, yes, I could've written it down on paper or opened a word processor of some kind--but that's all in the past now! And I'm stuck with no inspiration. Because you were serving the wrong...server or something really terribly uninteresting!

Well, Google. I want my old blogger blogger back. Go away! I don't need you anymore! Don't take the cat, she's mine! Get your hands off that Chinese takeout, I paid for half of that, buster! You're a turd in yellow water! Rawwwr!

Yours truly,

EMGreen

Chapter One: Don't Close Your Eyes

Because you'll fall asleep.

You've just gotten back from work yesterday night. It's about 10:30/11:00. You worked all day yesterday from 9am to 4:30 at your first job and 6-10:00 at your second job. Poor you. You seem to have been working pretty consistently but not really getting anything accomplished. At your first job you type some stuff. You copy 35 duplicates of a 31 page packet for a teacher and label it the "Leaning Tower." You do other really important stuff.

Then you go to your second job. You clean bathrooms, take trash, vacuum departments, mop bathrooms, and slug your way back home. Home? Oh, yes, you remember this place. This is where your computer, cats, and bed are. This is also where food is. This is also where someone called "mom" talks to you occassionally. Mom is that thing with the blonde hair who feeds you. Yes, you remember home.

The next day you're at your first job again about to go to your second job. You start to make a blog entry except can't get to the site do to some idiot name Google doing something to you server that you're sure is inappropriate. You finally get to typing an entry with all your patience and inspiration gone and you realize near the end that there is no meaning to this entry. You make it a point to start making meaningful entries in the future. In the meantime you fear closing your eyes because once you do it's all over. You're with Doctor Who, humping in the TARDIS even though you're pretty sure you might be a lesbian.

After all is said and done you realize that life is just like this. And, for now, it will stay like this. You don't' think too much about it because then you'll write an entry that's much too long for anyone to pay attention to more than the first paragraph. No that anyone reads your blog except one male actor and a very sweet girl. And you're pretty sure that this audience has been narrowed to that one very sweet girl who left you that comment that one time. You remember? Yeah.

currently: nonclinically insane (is there a distinct difference)

current picture: ----<---<@ (it's a rose)

New Obsessions and Old Obsessions Getting Married

2007-01-18T11:58:00.000-05:00

Old Obsessions Getting Married:

Alan Cumming to Grant Shaffer (www.grantshaffer.com).

http://www.pridesource.com/article.shtml?article=22929

Alan Cumming is one of my very favorite actors. I have always admired his work and have gained inspiration from what he does and who he appears to be in the limelight. I fell in love with him in such a hard and giddy way the first time I saw him interviewed.

J. Zuniga and I were talking yesterday about the people you really like, really enjoy, really admire you usually didn't when you first saw them. I originally despised Alan's voice on the Cabaret soundtrack. But after seeing him in an interview and recognizing his name I fell in mad, innocent, crazy love with his persona. I listened to the soundtrack again and, thus, fell in mad, innocent, crazy love with it, as well.

And so this article telling how he's found a love to share the probable rest of his life with is so satisfying to me. I'm so happy for him. He doesn't even know it, but someone is truly happy for him. Good job, Alan! Congratulations on falling in love and being yourself to the end. You inspire me to take chances. Too bad I haven't acted on that, quite yet.

Oh, and p.s. He's going to be in a Mini Series on Sci Fi in December. It's called "Tin Man." It's a modernization of "The Wizard of Oz" story. Not sure how that's going to work, but if Alan's in it, I know I'll like at least one character. (He's playing a man with half a brain.)

New Obsessions:

Please. No one hang, shoot, or maim me. Don't point fingers and laugh. But I am in puppy dog love with Doctor Who. Not the man, the series. The idea and concept. (Tom Baker too, but I digress.)

This series has caught me by the interest neurons and shook me until I became loopy. Love it. I want to read the original books. I think it is a fantastic idea and I love the new series. I loooved Christopher Eccleston (if you've never heard of him check him out in the latest season of Heroes). And David Tennant isn't too bad, either. Tom Baker is the sanest insane person I've ever seen. Those eyes. Those creepy eyes. Those boggly, bulging, beautiful eyes. It's like staring into a prince halfway through transformation from a frog. But a cute frog. Like kermit.

Alright. This was a useless entry.

Just the kind of entry I like writing. It means life is liveable enough to not have to write about the suffering.

Who? Me? Melodramatic? Pshha.

currently: Fan. Big Fartin' Fan.

current picture:

My 48th Post

2007-01-17T08:43:00.000-05:00

48 isn't a milestone. It isn't a number usually associated with great achievement. There isn't any reason I should care to put that this is my 48th post. It more seems to be a "just in case you're wondering, if you've been reading you've wasted 48 posts worth of life exploring someone else's life." I want to say that I appreciate anonymous for commenting, by the way. I really do. I think everyone at some point finds some loneliness brought on by a selfish need to be recognized, no matter how meek their accomplishments. Or something.

I came to this entry initially wanting to write on how, currently, I'm sabotaging myself from succeeding. "Same old story, same old song and dance!" Oh, but it is. It's why I went to community college instead of a university. It's why I work in retail instead of interning at a television studio. It's why I'm doing temp secretary work instead of studying in England. But I want to say, now that I'm admitting myself of guilt, that if you're doing the same thing out there in the world beyond that computer screen, that it's alright. Not that it's alright to be sabotaging yourself--no. But, it's alright because you're not being bad. You aren't going to be punished for locking yourself in a cave. No one is expecting you to go out and create something big. You don't know what lies beyond the blanket, and it's fine not to want to know.

I'm not saying I'm willing to go and whip the blanket off my head, because I might not be. I'm a planning fool though. I make plans for my future and watch as they all crumble away in this thing called procrastination. I sabotage myself because sabotage is a type of control, too.

Yesterday I was waiting at a red light. I get some sort of perverse joy out of seeing how people who turn left onto Hardin Valley from the Parkway go over this one bump. With the high-end sports cars and boats that old people and hip highschoolers (who are witty and quirky) there's not much to see. But you get into the light economy cars and it's a show. It's fun to watch their heads go bobbing on top of their necks and how concentrated they seem to be, having no idea of the hilarity this causes. Serious faces are belittled by the bobbley bobble head action. And every once and a while you'll get some lady in a car with bad suspension and sunglasses who looks very very cool until that bump, where one kind of concrete meets another. And even their glossy lips and bleach blonde perfectly messy buns can't make up for the ridiculousness in which they shake.

Yesterday I was watching something on tv. I was watching it from the right side of the screen sitting on a couch arm across from my front door. My front door has three little windows going consecutively up toward the ceiling. Sometimes I'm so childish. Without any provocation I lept off the couch arm and, with a booming of "I'm too old for this" landing sound, I lept up my door toward the ceiling. I scaled my door. I took some deep breaths. I turned around to my couch again and walked back calmly. I stared at the tv for a short while (I don't even remember what was on. Television is more of a background heartbeat in my life than something to specifically pay attention to). I glanced at the door. I was off again. But this time that "I'm too old for this" sound crashed on the shakey shelves above my tv. I didn't ram my front door for a third time in fear of breaking something unvaluable. (That would be UNvaluable, not invaluable.)

Last night I had a dream of J. Beuerlein. Don't give me that look. I scratched it down on an envelope so I wouldn't forget it because it was one of those dreams that comes after you hit the "sleep" button a number of times, so it was still vivid in my mind.

J. B. was staying over at my house with Isaac Mizrahi, though he didn't look like Isaac Mizrahi in my dream. He was this little podgy boy with a bandana on his head. Nice, if not brisque in company. There was also this very straight boy there. Still don't know who he was supposed to be, though he seemed nice if not a little distant.

J. B. and his gang (Isaac and Hetero) had painted my bathroom the night before. They painted it black and white with silver writing on various parts. One of these parts was an outlet box and it said, "move here" in silver.

The most interesting aspect about this dream, though, had to be J.B.'s choice of outfit. He was wearing a black evening dress, the same evening dress I was wearing (with pleated chest and black ruffles on the skirt). He was also wearing very large very fake breasts (inside the dress). I had long hair, slightly reddish (because I assimilated that I've been using my mom's "keep your hair red" shampoo). I was getting ready for work in the dream. And when I woke up, it was the time I had finished getting ready for work at in the dream as well as the time I should have been finished getting to work at in the physical world.

Anyway, I suppose what all of this relates to is my desire to be passionate. (like the segue?) And blah blah blah. And the moral is, don't eat eggs after the expiration date and don't paint your toenails and put on a pair of socks.

currently: working? Hah. Yeah.

current picture:

What the--: Part Deux (the previously unposted second part of saga)

2007-01-09T16:21:00.000-05:00

Walked outside not long after I drove in this morning. The sun was shining. Apparently the entire winter weather built up into one tizzy of an outburst and then, catharsis past, was fine. Granted, it's still colder outside than the middle of an oven-cooked turkey. My skin cells are traumatized. The micro world on my flesh is in complete shock. I think it's the deception more than anything, though.

My eyes look outside through a window and see blue sky, white clouds, and bright sun. My brain records this vision and sends a message to my outer limbs in the voice of the impeccable James Earl Jones, "It's alright, little guys. Looks like its gonna be warm trails from here on out. Be cool, nerve endings. Stay calm, hair follicles. Prepare for Vitamen D absorption."

My skin's like, "Sweet! Bout time. Right-O, old chap." (Some of my hair follicles have bad English accents. I blame myself.)

And then I step outside.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh! Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze. Retreeaaaaaaat. Bloody 'ell it's nippy out here."

And my armpits are like, "What's that? Sweat? Alright."

And so there I am with slightly damp armpits and screaming skin and, to top all of it off, bits of water are being blown by wind at my face, in my eyes, into my ear. Freezing water. I'm being pelted by freezing water.

My nose falls off. "Leave the nose! Take cover in the cafeteria," screams my skin. "Bollocks the nose!" screams my dick-van-dyke-circa-Mary-Poppins-hair follicles.

"I like smelling!" I cry. Running like a maniac, my nose convulsing on the icy concrete, I grab up the nostril-clad limb and stick it on. "Ew, smells a bit like frozen goose pooh," I say.

Ah, finally the warmth. I stand under the heater vent--and my entire body catches on fire. "Ooh. Bit too warm." Because if you get warm too quick after you come in from outside your skin tries to separate from your innards. Luckily your innards have internal staplers and pushpins so when your skin tries to retreat your muscles are just like, "oop, this bit's coming undone, I think. Gimme another one of the clear ones, bicept."

"Why the clear ones?"

"I like them best."

"Only got green ones left."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, sorry. The cheeks stole all the clear ones."

"Those bastards. Well, here. Gimme a green one. Thanks. Oh! It's not even real green. It's that weird lime color."

And then I look back at this draft of an entry and post it anyway.

currently: moderately nostalgic

current picture:

What the--

2007-01-09T09:27:00.000-05:00

Freak snow storm, isn't it?

Here I am, driving innocently on my way to work at the college. Doo-doo-doo do do...that's the sound I make when I'm driving. Or, at least, that's my soundtrack in my head while I'm driving--I'm a simple person. One piece orchestra type gal. None of that BOOOM BOOOOM BAH DA DAH DAAAAH DAH...tinkytinkytinkytinky BOOM BOOOOM BAH DA DAH DAAAAAAAH DAH.

Anyway, so I'm driving. I'm listening to Eddie Izzard and laughing my arse off, which, by the way, isn't entirely safe in a car, but I digress. Suddenly it starts to snow. Imagine that--winter and it's snowing. I scream in absolute joy. I say "Well it's about g-dd-mn f-cking time!" Which, at the time, seemed to be the best profane in existence for it. I'm much more prone to profanity in cold weather.

Snow got mad.

Woooooosh! it said. And an entire bowl of sugar tipped over and fell on Knoxville. Top-heavy vans were skidding behind me. People had their wiper blades turned on. The road turned shiny with the gleam of frothy snow spittle. I turned into an old lady and kept to 40/45 miles an hour.

Oops.

So, on behalf of Knoxville, I apologize for the sudden blizzard. My bad. It was a lot prettier when it wasn't rushing into my windshield, I've got to say.

currently: brrr

current picture:

My Kingdom For Keys

2006-12-18T10:45:00.000-05:00

I'm absolutely and irrevicobly...irrevacably...irr--screw spell check. I'm tired, darn-it!

So many things have happened in the past couple of weeks: sue died, I went to her funeral, I got lots of early christmas presents, Ben and Laurel visited, I decorated a tree, I broke down a number of times, I rented a car because my other one is getting fixed because IT WASN'T MY FAULT, I TELL YA, and I can't find keys.

It seems terribly metaphysical. Keys equal an entrance to something and it seems as if I am forever getting shut off, slowed down, or tuckered out. And now that I don't have keys that physically exist to physically open a physical door to information in the form of English folders by prior students I'm just feeling a bit metaphored out. I'm drowning in new English folders in the office. I have a pretty good sized fort in here. A bit of a wall, actually. I'm half expecting to see East Berlin behind it if I ever get these blasted things out of here.

I saw Absurd Person Singular last weekend and was incredibly surprised by everything. I, sincerely, did not think it could be pulled off in any sort of fashion. I'm so fantastically wrong.

I'm trying to call Sue from the great beyond. I'm trying to tell her that she needs to help me find those keys. But no help from my dead friend. No help from someone who will never again grace the presence of the office. No help from my former mentor, my second mother. The dead can be so rude sometimes. Of course, the fact that they've gone up and died doesn't bode well to the trustworthiness of their helpfulness. But I thought I'd give it a shot. All I recieved was the sudden urge to water dying plants that Sue always kept alive. I suppose those are the priorities.

I can hardly keep my eyes open. I need a stick of dynomite. I need to bust those doors open and shell out the old and put in the new. I need to replenish stock. I need to update old ideas. I need to know that someone is reading out there. Not because I have an ego (though I do) and think that my writings are anything worth the effort taken to read them (though, obviously they're shakespeare reincarnated through me) but because I'm feeling so very isolated right now. I don't even have the hope of archeologists finding my witty ramblings because computer addresses won't be dug up next to the bones. This blog will be eaten by internet monsters and lost in the ethers of unsaved ims and deleted spam after 7 days.

And so it should be. Because heaven knows if it was possible to read this after more than a thousand years and they based all of past humanity off of what I had written they'd be convinced that everyone was plagued with psychosis and neurosis. Then again, isn't everyone? It's become a bit of the norm to be crazy. Just so long as your craziness lends itself to the social neurosis that everyone else has. It's okay to be crazy as long as you're crazy like everyone else.

currently: very small

current picture:

Regifted

2006-12-04T16:20:00.000-05:00

This is how you tell if you've been regifted. The box that your present came in looks like it's not the box it may have come in because of white fold marks of prior openings and fingerings and tape on both sides of the lid, holding it down. But, when you open it, it IS the picture on the outside of the box regardless of your intitial preconceptions. And the picture is of a dip bowl and spreader with various fruit and/or gourd paintings along the cheaply painted porcelain bowl and spreader handle.
Today this regifting pisses me off more than others. People who conserve piss me off, today. And I use piss in the most kindest way possible. It's better than I could say. Anway, the reason why this pisses me off is because this gift was dug out of the bottom of a box of gifts and given to me with no thought of who I am.

"But everyone likes dip!"

But not everyone wants fruit embellished dishware to celebrate their love of dip. I already have dipware. It's called an old coolwhip bucket and a knife!

It is ridiculous to assume that this gift was anything more than a stumble to prove oneself in the social status of workplace folly. If your gift wasn't meant for me, don't give me a gift. I'll accept a card. Personalise the dern thing. It just...it seems silly and petty and...and I'm done now. And late.

Goodbye.

Currently: Dip..py?

Current picture:

My Life is Jiggling Away

2006-12-03T14:18:00.000-05:00

I just fixed myself lemon jellow cut in cubes in a small plastic cup. I might as well have committed myself. I might as well have sealed the jellow in one of those plastic tops and served it to myself on a tray. And attached to an IV my arm. And the IV is labelled inspiration and motivation. And right now it's gone.

You ever get those epiphanies? Those things that just clue you in on what life is really about and you can see your path clearly and with no obstacles at all and right through all those would-be obstacles? I haven't seen that in a long time, either.

These are the facts that remain:
Sue is dying.
My inspiration is dying.
My motivation is dying.
And I'm eating lemon jell-o out of a little plastic container.

It's one of those things you have to pretend to laugh about because it's so ridiculous and you'd be so humorless not to. Just make sure not to cry while you're laughing because if you're eating the jell-o while crying it's just injustice to the scene. You can't eat jell-o and cry. You eat icecream and cry. But eating jell-o and crying is like murdering Bill Cosby. It's disgusting. It's senseless. It's hilarious, but only for the moment.

The truth is, the sky is gray. And hell if I can see the sun right now. I need...a big leaf/cloud blower.

currently: If I have to answer this, you're not a very perceptive reader.

current picture:

Nano Nano...

2006-11-10T15:55:00.000-05:00

I am crashing and burning on this nano thing (see www.nanowrimo.org) I am barely 5,000 words and it's already November tenth. I feel like I'm getting no where but more confusion. My novel, as it is now, reads like an episode of Lost, except without progression. Granted, Lost doesn't have much progression either. I think it's a big joke on the audience to try and find a meaning behind the show. Don't let the critics fool you, you don't have to be a genius to understand Lost, you have to be an idiot to think there's anything to understand.

Or...was that the other way around.

At any rate, I'm still trying. I'm now typing the equivalent of two novels. Because I'm too lazy to send myself the first part of my novel I've started typing other scenes from whatever parts of my novel I want to at work. When I get home I'll work on the first part. When I'm at work I work on scenes that may or may not happen. Right now I think it's fair to say that my novel is a tossed salad of Firefly influences and not knowing what in the heckadoodle to do next. Whenever I write what seems to be an end to a scene I put a line there and start a new one. Introduce a new character, go back to previous characters and see what they're up to. It reads like someone strung out my brain and rung it out on a hanky and then blew their nose on it.

I'm so tired.

current mood: defeated

current picture:

3,600 / 50,000
(7.2%)

You ever get a craving?

2006-11-07T11:32:00.000-05:00

For something that is obviously not natural for you to be craving? I don't mean pregnancy cravings, I mean those everyday food cravings. Like, you're watching tv or eating a sandwich and suddenly you have this gutwrenching craving for potato chips. Can you imagine if cavemen had a craving for potato chips? No. They aren't a naturally occuring food.

I wonder if that is why we evolved (I know I know, I'm in the south and that's a dirty word). If we were eating bark and berries and raw meat and thought, "Man. I could really eat some carbohydrates from a brown round vegetable that you can chop into slices and bake and/or fry with various other chemicals that don't exist yet. Something crispy. And this bark ain't cuttin' it. I'm going to invent the wheel."

I wonder if it was genuinly a desire for something better in our lives that drove us forward. Or perhaps it was a selfish desire for something better--either way we went from being deer-like prey to obnoxious earth-destroying human beings. Homosapiens, even!

I dunno. Can a craving for potato chips really do all that? I had a craving for potato chips a few days ago and went down to the Walgreens store and bought some on sale. But what if I hadn't had potato chips? Hell, I could have cured cancer...

currently: a swhat?

current picture:

Enough to make a girl profane.

2006-10-30T15:24:00.000-05:00

I'm putting off the Dresden Doll ohmycodi'veseenthemlivenananananaboohbooh entry until a little later. I've got to vent. Just call me Ms. AC.

I don't know what to do. I feel like I'm in one of those EMO videos where the guy sings about everything wrong in his life. Well, right now, I feel like an awful lot of things refuse to be right.

I have a second job now. I'm working as a temporary secretary to the English department where I had my two year stint as a work-study in during school to help pay for my education...and food. You'd say, that's fantastic. Congratulations! You're making more money than Kohls and now you don't have to work at Kohls as often.

But nothing's ever that simple. To recieve something in this world it seems as if something has to be foresaken. The reason why I'm here (literally, I'm at work) is because someone close to me is not. She's not dead. She's not well, though.

Oh Cod! And everything's under a blanket. One of those blue fuzzy blankets where you can see the shape of what's underneath but no one's saying what it is! I need to say it! She's dying!

It's so hard to say. My throat closes in on the words. But it's easier than pretending otherwise. And, yet, it's not without the hope of her surviving that I say it but because it's a relief to get the voices in the back of my mind out. You keep them stuffed in for so long and they get anxious for it. And then you get depressed and cry for no reason at all. Or at least not a very good one. And you wonder why.

Also. The payment that I'm getting conflicts excruciatingly with my low-paying lesser hours Kohls job. I'm going to be eating off of dry limbs and berries by the time I get my first check from here at the end of November. Not that I don't love it here, but Cod, it's friggin' hard. Everything's so hard recently. I feel like I'm living in the cracks of a brick and I can't find the dern exit.

And, no, I can't get an advance on the check.

Then again, you'd probably find that true with most schools. So I don't blame them.

I need to learn how to play a guitar and get my hair in just that way where it's covering only one eye at a time dramatically and depressingly. Maybe then I'd at least make some money for my depressing state.

current picture: (it's not currently uploading pictures for me)

current mood: I'm not telling.

Trademark Security Warning, Styrofoam Misconception.

2006-10-20T08:42:00.000-05:00

WARNING WARNING WARNING!

Put down that formerly styrofoam cup of coffee and pick up that generic foam cup of coffee! Silence your tongues, they speak not what it means! It is a verbal revolution against those who would dare whisper a trademarked name to inappropriate ends! Not since "Duck Tape" brand Duct Tape or "Band-Aid" brand sticky bandages with a little cushion for your cut in the middle has there been such an uproar.

On my journey through the internets I've not only found the correct spelling of the word "styrofoam" but I have found the company that's had to bear the burden of their product's name being spewed over foam less worthy of the label. I think I'll just let the words speak for themselves as I have no words to lament my sadness of the injustice brought to this nobel unrecycleable product!

http://www.dow.com/styrofoam/what.htm

Invented by Dow more than 50 years ago and identified worldwide by the distinctive Blue** color, STYROFOAM* products are the most widely recognized brand in insulation today. In the early 1900s, The Dow Chemical Company invented a process for extruding polystyrene to achieve a closed cell foam that resists moisture. Recognizing its superior insulating properties, buoyancy and "unsinkability," it was originally adopted in 1942 by the Coast Guard for use in a six-man life raft. That was the start of many other wartime applications by the Coast Guard and Navy.

Today, the Dow STYROFOAM brand includes a variety of building materials (including insulated sheathing and housewrap), pipe insulation and floral and craft products. But there isn’t a coffee cup, cooler or packaging material in the world made from STYROFOAM.
These common disposable items are typically white in color and are made of expanded polystyrene beads. They do not provide the insulating value, compressive strength or moisture resistance properties of STYROFOAM products. In order to protect the Dow trademarked name “STYROFOAM”, such other material should be referred to by the generic term “foam.”

I am not a peg. I do not need a hole.

currently: outraaaaaged!!!!

current picture:

Sanity-Check, Boredom-Double-check

2006-10-19T10:33:00.000-05:00

I go on these blogging splurges where I post nearly everyday for about three to five days and then I take a haitus for nearly a month and then I post again. I don't normally have this much sane time where I'm not exhausted so that I can actually think but since I've gotten a temporary position in the English department of a local college I suddenly have constant access to a computer with internet and enough down hours to compose a blog or two.

I'm not really bored, here. Bored would be laying on my back with my legs drapped over the arm of my recline-chair with a million things to do but no inspiration to do them. That's my definition of pure boredom. Not just the lack of things to do but the apathy about things needing to be done that creates it. No, right now I'm just plain old lacking anything to keep me entertained.

So I'm entertaining myself.

This morning I accomplished fantastic feats. First, I replenished the office supplies. I washed a vase and the dry erase marker jar. I put dry erase markers into the dry erase marker jar. I put candy into the candy jar. I replenished the large rubberbands. I put more pencils in the drawer beside the dry erase markers. I picked up trash. I helped someone get into a teacher's office to retrieve their back pack. Their three thousand pound green backpack with a black strap that nearly pulled something in my arm, I'm not sure what. I don't even think I had anything in my arm that would have been pulled by the action if I hadn't picked up the pack. It created a muscle to be pulled. That's how heavy it was.

I'd forgotten how much of an ache (a literal ache) it was to be a student. To think I'll be subjecting myself to that again after spring semester and summer.

In other news, I'm going to Kohl's after I get off from here. We'll see how that goes. I'm not sure about this whole working two jobs kinda thing. But, after all, this job right here is only temporary. So it's not as if it'll last forever.

Time warp: Look who just packed student perceptions in less than five minutes flat! That's right. It's me. We can celebrate later with cheap red wine and cheddar cheese on trisquits.

currently: three and a half hours in

current picture:

Gorey, Hair B-Gone, and Evil Spock

2006-10-18T00:22:00.000-05:00

Re: Gorey Ball

Where were you! You fiends! You...you...people who aren't going to read this! What was it? October fest? Beerfest? Fall break? You Saturday night whores, you were supposed to be at the Gorey Masquerade so I wasn't wandering around aimlessly in a peacoat, tights, and wool hat with a "Hello, My Name is: Hector (killed by thugs)" sticker on my coat. I didn't get lost in the old city in the middle of the night just to finally find my way to Market Square and be bored out of my mind! You pions! Where were you, partymakers of the night? Drunk off beer? Eating too much baclava? Being fall-y? Ya bastards and biotches alike!

But that's okay. That's alright. I talked about firefly and Joss Whedon with two fellow intellectual geeks. I helped a girl cure her hiccups. And I had awkward conversation. Bet you're jealous now.

Re: What hair?

I can't tell you how good it feels not to have hair.

Answer: Evil Spock
Question: What sticker is covering the scratch marks on the right side of my laptop computer?

Have you ever fallen in love with a gay man? Oh shush, yes you have, I don't care what gender you call yourself. I don't mean to be cliché. I don't mean to fit into a mold, but I think it's a constant in my life that I fall in lust...infatuation with gay men. Celebritywise we have my affairs with both Sir Elton John and not-so-Sir Alan Cumming. Non-celebrity wise...well...if I told you I'd have to kill you. No I wouldn't.

The thing is, I usually know in the first few minutes that, oh, they are not straight and (therefore) would not be interested in me. Sometimes I don't. That's okay. I'll cry about it later when I'm talking to my psychiatrist when I'm thirty and still haven't had a deep relationship with another human. But, the question is, what do I see in gay men that I prefer?

It's not a stereotypical thing because I've fallen for gay men who aren't obviously "gay." There must be some trait shared in the gay community that isn't stereotypical but, regardless, common. This has been an ongoing struggle. I've been called a hag, and a fly (a fruit fly, heh) by a good friend. I've also been attracted to gay men since I was a wee girl.

Maybe it's a forbidden fruit, thing. Or it's a safety thing. Attracted to gay men! Ooh, that means I can't have a relationship deeper than "girl, you look great in that shirt." (p.s. No one's ever said that to me.)

I also have another forbidden infatuation. W.E. Hill, my lesbian crush.. She is in a relationship right now. And because I have deeper feelings for her (oh, unrequited love!) I've failed to become a greater friend. It's one of those selfish, egotistical moves that makes it easier for me and makes her feel like maybe she's done something wrong. Or not. Regardless, I still like-like her and she only likes me. The cutie.

Ah, well. I think I'll just stick with being attracted to the transies, the gay "bois" and lesbian "gyrls" (written that way just to annoy someone who may or may not be still reading this neglected blog, yes, I was listening to your conversation).

currently: Bladder bloated

current picture:

L is for the way you look at me...

2006-09-27T18:08:00.000-05:00

I don't know why it's so hard for me to understand the deep and neverending connection of love. A person would sacrifice life for another. How is that possible? And why am I so moved by it? I just saw the most cheesiest thing on myspace about love. It was a video showing a woman who meets a photographer. They fall madly and deeply and irrevocably in love.

And then tragedy occurs. The girl, while going into her love's dark room at the pictures she reaches up and there lies an opened bottle of photo chemical and falls straight into her gorgeous brown eyes. The boy goes through trauma while the girl is in recovery and finally the boy leaves for some reason unknown to the viewer.

Until we see the girl's eyes unwrapped. I think it's to infer that she's had an eye transplant. You know, they're common nowadways. Not really. That was badly phrased sarcasm. But as she finally finds her one and true love he's given up his eyes, his sight (remember, lovers, he's a photographer. This is his life.) for her. She cries and never tells him that she is even there.

I shed a tear.

I think I did because I can't imagine that sort of devotion (no matter how unlikely the plot). And some part of me wants that. But some part of me thinks that sort of attachment to another person is ridiculous. I can't fathom myself giving myself in that much to another being. It comes with a certain kind of weakness that I'm not too enthusiastic to have. I'm a loner. I'm an only child with internal dialogue. I can't have someone sneak in on that. I would get jealous of them for getting all my attention.

But there is some...attraction in the idea of unconditional completely devoted love. It's something truly...foriegn to me. And things we've not experienced are often things which we would like to at least once.

Maybe the Wal-a-phed is having an affect on me. But don't think I'm ready to throw in the towel on independence. I may be dependent on someone fixing me dinner every night, but certainly not on giving everything up. I don't know what you gain. I don't know if it's worth it. It's probably not. But you wouldn't know it to be in it, would you? But from out here? It's not worth it. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

By the way, my nose is acting up. Would someone please bring out a nose-whip? Huh? Can I get a little attention on this? I'm sick. Pity me, Coddernit!

currently: high on sudaphed--life is overrated

current picture:

Arrrcrap.

2006-09-21T05:42:00.000-05:00

I not only missed "Talk Like a Pirate Day" but I also missed "Belated Talk Like a Pirate Day." There couldn't possibly be a Belated, Belated Talk Like a Pirate Day, hm?

I know what you're thinking. E.M. Green, why are you stll up? Because the sleeping pill hasn't kicked in, I says. I just got off from work (a rambunctious third shift, in case you're confused) and I'm waiting for pills from my supervisor to kick in. It's funny, watching a grown man yip at the force of a buffer on the loose. Shush, I will disclaimer you now that this entry won't make any sense.

This pill that's dissolving in my digestive system right now is supposed to use your natural sleeping chemical to get you a-sleeping. Our bodies are like one of those really cool chemistry sets. We have so many chemicals. I bet if we mix them we'll explode. Or maybe stink real bad. I suppose that happens anyway. All we need now is some of those...tube thingies and a white labcoat.

I think the pills kicking in.

And out.

currently: i...huh?

current picture: - _ - zzzzzzz...etc...

They Call me Mellow Mallow

2006-09-15T12:59:00.000-05:00

Well. I finally updated layreview (www.layreview.blogspot.com) with the last minute review on Unidentified Human Remains and the True Nature of Love...*faints from lack of oxygen*

I'm going to a wedding tomorrow, leaving today. I'm not going to be anything in the wedding. This doesn't really upset me at all. You think it would, being that she's my cousin and all. But do you know what being nothing in a wedding means? It means that I don't have to buy a custom-made dress. It means I don't have to go to rehearsals. It means I'm not involved if the bride goes through self-hatred or pushiness. It means I don't have to stand another fitter telling me that my shape is so unusual that there's not bra to fit me. It also means that I'll eat free food, watch a wedding, and give gifts. This, in my mind, is the epitome of lazy-arse family fun.

I also get to wear my fabulous shoes!

And after everything is over and I'm back home I'll finally get to schedule my hair buzzing!

Unfortunately this means I won't be staying for the closing night of...that play I mentioned up there that I reviewed. But, no worries, I'll have accomplices that will tell me exactly what went on.

Though being an umbrella seems the most intriguing choice of costume for the Gorey Masquerade, I'm slowly realizing how complex the costume might have to be. But no worries, I have a back up! I always do.

currently: Ugh, shouldn't have eaten so many marshmallows

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Paris Hilton in Space

2006-09-06T02:18:00.000-05:00

I have one thing to say on the return to the 80's fashion that's going around: camel toe is never cool and will never be coo.

As I was swimming home from work the day before yesterday I was trying to think if I had any interesting tidbits that I could share on my...blog. That's right. I'm now preplanning my blogs in my head. I had the camel-toe bit swimming around there a while.

To the one person waiting for the review to the play he's starring in (if he's still reading my blog) I am still trying to gather a cohesive opinion to Unidentified Human (forgot that word in my entry about it) Remains and the True Nature of Love to put in Layreview. I really want to get this one out before the show ends.

Does anyone have any idea where to get a cheapish santa clause coat and/or zebra tights so that I can be a fabulous drumming drag queen from RENT? I am having way too much trouble with these simple items. Maybe I'm being too picky. I feel like I should continue that thought, but I don't have anything interesting to add.

Oh, by the way, in my world right now it's after three A.M. I can't, for the life of me, get to sleep. Granted, I haven't tried. Well, I did a little bit. No, I didn't.

I'm going to volunteer again this Saturday at the Black Box. Maybe this time I'll be, you know, social or something. I'm going to be with my friend, Jay. So at least I can alienate everyone else by only talking to her if worse comes to worse.

You know, I just have to say something about theatre people just for a little moment. I have this theory, I don't care if I'm offending because it's not meant to be offensive it's meant to be pure observation from a social worker's daughter. Anyway, I have this theory that theatre people are just as socially inept as I am, but have found a collection, a cliqué if you will, of other people who can be socially inept in the exactly same way as they are. They speak in their own language and completely leave anyone not theatre oriented out of the conversation.

I think theatre people are fantastic, though. I think they're fantastic because they can do something I cannot, will not, nor have any desire to do. (Okay, maybe a little hidden cheeky desire.) They create in themselves, from themselves, directly. I can create, I'm not disputing my ego--I'm awesome. But I can't create directly from my body, mind, and emotion to someone else. I can't speak and move my body and effect people by a look. It's amazing! I am in awe of that sort of talent.

But not in that creepy obsessive way. No, I save that sort of adoration for drag queens, Alan Cumming, and the Hedwig soundtrack.

Well, actually, those are the actor theatre people. I think the others are fantastic too, though. Because they have this amazing ability to see beyond what I have the ability to and see what can be. Right now I couldn't plan a play if I wanted to. I could plan a movie, but not a play. My brian isn't tuned to it.

I just erased a paragraph because I didn't like it. I thought that was needed to be known because it's after three A.M. and I have every right to erase a paragraph and tell everyone about it.

Okay, before I spend thirty minutes making another eraseable paragraph I'm gonna be off with me. Expect a new layreview entry...eventually.

Oh, and hello, Howie. Abby told me you commented and I looked back and saw you had. Then I followed your link and remembered who you were. And you probably aren't actually still reading this, but I thought I'd say hello. Hello. Person not there.

currently: In England it's nine fifty-one A.M.

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The Unidentified Remains and the True Nature of Love

2006-09-01T22:02:00.001-05:00

Um. Hm.

I...hm.

...

People who know me know that I don't cry often. Not that I'm not sad often, everyone is sad. But I don't cry often.

Yeah--um. That's all I really had to say about that.

Digressing:

I came early to the Black Box Theatre so that I would make sure to have proper time to get helplessly lost, which is what tends to happen to me even in the most simplest of journeys. I was bored out of my eyesockets for most of the time. The dancing lady in curlers helped.

I'm painfully shy, at times. This was one of those times. I felt like I would have felt much better squirrelled up in a corner. Everyne had their "in" jokes about some guy named Jimmy giving them great seats at the U.T. theatre and whatnot and I was just...out of every loop made in the Black Box. Loopless and loopy. And don't dare leave a comment that says "Oh, yeah! I know Jimmy! He's fantastic!" Because I don't. And so make an entry dedicated to Jimmy in your own journals.

Erm, so, yes, I do apologize for being offish at both the beginning and end of the night. I'll get over it. I promise I can say more than hi and bye and shyly stand in every corner I can find. You all at the Black Box intimidate me. No no, I know you're harmless...right?

Anyway, I handed out pillows and Cha-Cha's solicitating cards and stood and stared at conversations and got touched by a fabulously done play. Night done. Oh oh! But more than that! When I was coming home I was behind a drunk person in a white car. Everytime they'd go into the other lane I heroically honked at them saving them, and the other person, from a messy death.

Oh, and apparently the Black Box smells like pooh. I must be permanently dissensitized to it, for all I smelt were candles. I met some great people today: Ben who runs the switch board, Guy who helped him run the switch board who's sister is known by other people, Red-haired guy who does the box office stuff, Chick who knows Laurel Smith, Laurel who isn't Laurel Smith but plays incredibly sexy Benita, and Apprentice Chick who tap dances.

The end.

currently: My head hurts a little. My eyes a tad tired.

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And to Think, I Could Have Been a Potato

2006-09-01T00:25:00.000-05:00

I'm exhausted.

Oh, don't do it. Don't say it. Don't say, "Yeah, well I've been doing such and such and I'm going to discredit the fact that you're absolutely pooped by giving you a greater reason for it." Because I might bite you until you bleed if you say that. I have a deserved right to be tired. I've worked 8 hours nearly every day for the past week doing cleaning in a retail store. Don't bring down my pity party, dernit! Can't I just have one?

The truth is I am completely over this job. The truer truth is I'm completely over the idea of any job. I'm tired of making money just to lose it by paying for essentials. I have less than a hundred dollars saved up for next year's college. A college, by the way, I'm unsure, yet, of the name of. Too many commas in that last sentence. It read like William Shatner.

Hopefully having something to distract me, like researching plays I've never read and writing about them by pure research should be...really hard. My friend, Kaethe (don't hurt yourself, it's pronounced Cathy), said she could never be a dramaturg, too many details. I about had a heart attack. I've read Kaethe's papers. This girl puts the tail in details. I mean, she writes essays like I spread butter on my toast. I'm...I'm doubtful. I just picture this large blank program coming after me with a hallibut and smacking me in the arse.

*sigh*

I'm volunteering to do work, now. I'm a glutton for it. Now, I'm not only getting paid too little I've decided to skip the payment part all together. This better earn me mucho karma points. Imagine, if you had to turn in your karma taxes and get a return. Except then you get your dogma returns too. If it were like that on regular taxes I imagine some IRS guys coming door to door and smacking you up side the head. Then taking your car.

I need a new job. A job that pays more than 6.95. If anyone knows of one I'm open for it. Gimme two weeks and I'll be there lickity split. Or, as the lesbians say it, lickity spit. Or, as the jews say it...erm...thrifity spiff? Or, as the bi's say it, pickity which? There, I think I've insulted all of me, now.

currently: balancing my laptop in the direction of my stolen internet access.

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The Longest Word in the English Language

2006-08-30T00:57:00.002-05:00

pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis
It's a lung disease. It's 45 letters long. I found it on "AskOxford." They claim, though, that it is one of the many "longest words" which are hardly, if ever, used. Here I am trying to innocently get the word "iconalize" (to make an icon of) into the dictionary and some idiot with a medical degree has gotten a lung disease with the word volcano smushed in before the "niosis" in. I'd like to know the usage rate of that word. No, actually I don't. The last thing I want is a pompous latin teacher to come in with a stack of medical books with highlighted pages full of this word and others like it.

You know what I'd like? I'd like some pompous arse to ask a spelling bee contestant to spell that word. And then? I'd like that spelling bee contestant to shove the microphone somewhere unpleasant. I'm not picky. It just irks me, the competitive nature of humans. And I'm not even talking about a region here. It isn't just in the U.S. that people fight for recognition. Though we, perhaps, perpetuate it more than others. Or maybe not. I don't know.

I suppose it's the result of being a social animal. It is of the utmost importance for humans to gain accomplices in life. Mutual accomplices that gain as much from you as you from them. Without these connections humans are left to fend for themselves, which, if you've seen any Discovery Channel in the last 20 years, means you're lion bate. It's an instinct to form bonds. Unfortunately sometimes this means competition to get the bonds you want or, in this society's case, the bonds that are deemed most popular with other people as well. If three thousand other people like So-and-So then So-and-So must be someone to be liked.

The trouble with all of this competition is that pretty soon though the lion isn't trying to eat you anymore you've become the lion. Which, in the full nature of the thing, isn't bad. Lions are just trying to survive, really. They're trying to protect their pride. Hm, interesting. That's what a lot of competitors are trying to do too, I imagine. Just a different kind of pride.

currently: Oh, for pete's sakes, who cares?

current picture:

The Longest Word in the English Language

2006-08-30T00:57:00.001-05:00

Sweet N'Low Swept Hairs and Kept Dust Bunnies off of the Clothes

2006-08-28T00:17:00.000-05:00

I look out the stock room and what do I see
God I really want to go home
A couple of managers coming after me
Is time yet to go home?

SweetN'Low
Swept Hairs and kept
Dust Bunnies off of the clothes

SweetN'Low
Swept Hairs and kept
Dust bunnies off of the clothes

A good sized part of me wants to say that I'm going back to school tomorrow...erm...later today? I want to be talking about a dorm room or buying overpriced books. I want to be gathered together in that society of my peer group grudging through a part time job and homework and the social life of staying up too late and drinking too much. Going to school with a hangover or missing class because I couldn't get a day off of my job.

You know, normal U.S. college kid life. I've never had that. I've never had an obnoxious roommate nor have I, as glasshole puts it, been attacked by wafts of patchouli saturated hippies. Nor, also stolen from glasshole, have I come to nearly orgasmic sensations from a hot, high-powered shower. Not sure if that's specific to the college experience or not, but certainly regardless of its affiliation, I want it, yah?

Anyway, some bulleted points of the current direction of my life:

I'm going to my cousin's wedding and therefore searching near and high for a dress.
Thus putting off my head-buzzing until after my cousin's wedding.
Yes, I'm geting my head buzzed.
I'm in the market for a new, higher paying job. Then again, aren't we all?
I'm a future dramaturg!
I know what a dramaturg is!
No, I won't tell you.
Alright, I will. It's a secret agent that works within theatre who shoots ink at theatre terrorists!
Okay, you got me, I'm lying.
*humming mission impossible*

To my lj friends, I apologize for my entries being uncut, if you've friended me. I've yet to find out how to do so.

currently: Oh, whatchamacallit?

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On Doing Something to Only Fill Your Own Need

2006-08-25T00:16:00.000-05:00

Here's an epiphany. Get ready. Hold onto your seats. I'm about to bust this thing wide open. Doing something (even with no other reason than) to fill your own need is not bad. I am sick of selfless "humble" people giving and giving and giving and apparently doing nothing to satisfy themselves because they protest when anyone accuses them of filling their needs, only their need even.

You know, I would be very upset to learn that my doctor had no need to be a doctor, that he was simply doing it because there was a need for other people for a doctor. Let me tell you something, Mr. PhD, if you don't need to help me get over whatever physical ailment I'm in then you shouldn't be a doctor. If there isn't a hole in your soul when you are not being a doctor then don't be my doctor.

I think we've "negatized" the word "need." We've stuck it in these ignorant offshoots like "needy" and "selfless act." You can't have a selfless act. If you have a selfless act then who's doing it? Can you separate that part of you that people identify as self and love someone? Simply loving someone is a need fulfilled to yourself. Me loving someone else gives me such great joy that I'd be clueless if I didn't think I needed to love.

So don't give me this crap about the only reason doing something is to fulfill a need being a horrid sin. I deny that. I push it away from my reality. That statement no longer exists, and if it does it makes no sense. People need to do things that they love to do. And if, for some reason, they aren't needing to do those things, then why the heck are they doing them? Stop doing that. Be selfish and do something you like doing, k?

And furthermore (yes, more further) actively doing something where you are the only thought in your mind of recieving the needed good of that event is fine. Now, I'm not saying that if this act were rape that you should go out and rape someone with no thoughts of what those consequences would be on other people. But if, say, you were acting in a play and thought nothing of anyone else except the needed good you would get from acting (not money nor fame as those are wants--we're talking the triangle heirarchy of needs here) then more power to you! Inadvertantly I assure you that others are profiting from your infatuated, obsessive love of the need to act.

So don't do that. Don't confuse those terms, need and want. Need is so much more than want. Want is usually an unhealthy craving for something that really has no bearing on your life. It's superficial. Need is something that helps you survive. Look in a dictionary. Think about what you're saying. Words aren't just there for decoration, they have a purpose. Don't be mean. Words paint pictures in people's minds. They can also act as paint thinner and destroy those pictures. That's not fair. Then again, the only thing truly fair is a day in the sun with rides, cotton candy, attractions, and unwinable overpriced games.

Internal Dialogue:

Now wait. If you're doing something and the only reason is fulfill a need...

Then that's fine! There's absolutely nothing wrong will fulfilling your own needs.

But for no other reason than to do that? What about other people?

What about them? You're not thwarting them from finding what they need.

But what if your journey to your need thwarts them.

If they need it they'll find it.

But you've thwarted them!

Name me one need that thwarts someone out of something they need.

Okay...the need for food. If you need food and someone else needs food and you get to food first--

Then they'll die. And they won't need food anymore.

That's a little harsh, don't you think?

No. You needed food. Let's even say you needed that amount of food or you wouldn't have lived. They also needed that amount of food or they would have died. If you had shared that food you both would have died. Would that've been any better than you or the other person taking the food and one of them living and one dying? And, expounding on that, is dying really a loss? Isn't it a gain for the other person if they die? They no longer have the need of what you gained. In a way, you both win.

That's a really ridiculous, unrealistic metaphor.

Not entirely. If you take someone that someone needs away the part of that person, be it physical or mental, will have to die. And when that death does occur, the need no longer exists and the point becomes moot. Want is much more complex than that. Wants don't die. Even when that object is no longer existing nor will ever be existing the want for it will still exist. Want morphs into the word "addiction," at that point. Addiction is an incredibly dangerous thing. It scews the realization of need and want. It makes you believe that you need what you want. It makes you think you'll die if you don't have it. That's a powerful motivation.

That's true. So are you saying that people with fetishes have needs or wants? For instance, if you're into shoes (genuinly fetishing not just I really like them alot) and you're suddenly drawn into a place where shoes no longer exist, will you die?

No. Fetishes are sexual needs. Your sexual satisfaction will die. Thus you'll have no need for shoes because you'll have no desire for sex. Granted, that's a horrid way to live, don't you think?

I'm a big proponent of sex.

You're a virgin.

I'm a supporter! Just call me a sex-hag.

Wow--we are really weird. Well, do you get what I'm saying now, though? The difference between need and want and the fact that there's nothing wrong with needing something?

I think. I still have my doubts, but I've always trusted you.

We do live in the same apartment.

Yes, and there must be some civility.

currently: disassociated

current picture:

We'll Feed Him with a Dohnut on a Stick

2006-08-22T19:23:00.000-05:00

My cousin is getting married.

I found my Aunt Marie's ring she gave me.

I didn't work today.

Oh! I'm volunteering two nights at Black Box!

Oh oh! And Lesley and I (well, mostly I) have decided that the surefire way to keep Mr. Beuerlein here for the hopeful revival of Hedwig at World Grotto for Halloween or whereever else for New Years is to tie him to the Black Box Theatre sign dressed as Hedwig. This will not only assure his adhesiveness to whatever date it might be, but it will also add a little spectacle to the theatre, allowing more and more people to come in groves to see shows. Or Mr. Beuerlein. Whatever.

You ever have the realization that life could be going a little better than it is right now?

currently: disgruntled

current picture:

To Boldly Go...

2006-08-20T19:21:00.000-05:00

Who's watching the roast of William Shatner? C'mon, I know you want to. It's like that last brownie that isn't yours. Take it! Take the whole dang brownie pan! Guilty pleasures. Put an apple in his mouth and shove him on a scewer! I love that man. Who can't love William Shatner? He's your drunk uncle who won't admit he's bald.

No, really, I do enjoy me some Shatner. Every once and a while I'll catch Star Trek on Spike or G4 and soak myself in good old fashion progressive television. No one had ever done a show like Star Trek. And, though a questionable actor, Mr. Shatner helped to bring in a whole new type of show with racy topics like gender equality (sorta) and racism (really more than the prior). But you got to see a woman, a black woman, in a position of power. Once I even saw Uhura beat up someone. I was like, hells yeah! Woman roars!

He was also in an episode of the Twilight Zone? The one with the thing on the plane. Beautiful. Perfect for that role. And he's probably very close to being a genuinly nice guy, too. I love those Priceline commericials. You can't hate William Shatner. At least not too long. You can have tiffs with him, but when you see him again he'll always make ya smile.

And anyway, every William Shatner joke ever told all in one place. Can't get any better.

currently: illogically giddy

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Baby, you know I love ya...

2006-08-19T19:34:00.000-05:00

Baby shower today. Reinforced my desire not to get pregnant. A hundred onesies*, recieving blankets**, diapers, bottles, bathing supplies, and bobbles of bobbles and fuzzy fluffy things later I was staring at the bugs in the flourescent lights to get away from the plethora of powder blue boy's playthings and why didn't anyone get yellow ducks or green rhinosauri? And ohmycod, is that a Dale Earnhart onesie! What evil things has this child yet to see!

People tell me, you never know what the future will bring. You might want a child! You might have a child! And I tell them that my biological clock got lost in the womb. I don't want a baby. I don't want to buy belly heavy maternity clothes and feast on odd food combinations until a watermelon comes through the eye of a needle and starts anew my life of such blessed singularity.

I say, I've never been in love. And how can growth of such a magnitude of a baby's worth creation come out of someone who's never been in love? Call it a mental disorder. I'll bite. Give me pills, and make me sterile. I'll create with my mind, not my womb. My children won't strain my back, but pull a muscle in my brain.

It's a lonely, crowded life in here. And darned if this scrooge is going to dialate for oversized head drooler to come barreling through.

Gah. It turned into a rant. Figures.

For the babylingo impaired:
*onesie-a garment worn that is a one-piece outfit (usually cute peppered with animals of various cartoon creations
*recieving blanket-puke buddy, drool mat, burp towel, blech (also usually peppered with cartoon actors but more uselessly so considering the eventual soiling of the cloth)

currently: oily

current picture:

p.s. www.layreview.blogspot.com

I have to stop apologizing for things I shouldn't be apologizing for.

I...Had a Dream!

2006-08-16T11:17:00.000-05:00

I had a dream last night that Alexsandr Petrovsky, the character from Sex and the City, worked with me in retail. But he was a lot better at it than me. He only had four pinstriped pants and one blazer that he was in charge of, but he neatened everything up really nicely and everyone was asking why I wasn't more like him. I also had a dream after that where large black triangles were coming after me and some other people. We found out that in the triangles were brainwashed soldiers. We helped them realize that they didn't have to be large black killing triangles anymore. Then we went to a flea store.

Isn't it odd how the subconscious works? Nothing makes any sense when you look back on it, but while you're in the dream, or even daydream, you seem to be lingual in "whattheferk" brain nonsense. It makes you think, what would happen if a circuit got hung between when you're awake and when you're dreaming? If all of the logic of the real world flew away to surrender itself to the logic of the dreamworld, what would happen? Would you end up killing yourself? Or would you actually be able to walk on air? Is it simply the thought that there are laws of gravity or breathing or any other thing that seems solid that makes reality or does reality exist wether or not we think it does?

Maybe dream reality and percieved awake reality tie in hand in hand, though. What if when we jump off that building we don't fly but we, instead, fall into a trash can or start walking on a telephone wire. What if our realities coincide in a way where everything that happens in the dream reality exists in the percieved awake reality--but clothed in metaphor and symbolism? Would it be interesting to decipher that? Or would it simply be a waste of time?

currently: asleep

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Hello Blemish, Welcome to My Cheek

2006-08-15T03:54:00.000-05:00

I hope you find everything to your liking, you puss-filled bag of filth. You'll find this area fairly rural, with a few neighboors to the left of the nose, some forehead dwellers and far off sheepish bumps arising on the chin. There is even a couple of new settlements coming up from the temples. But be assured that this area won't get too populated. In fact, in a few days, I'm hoping you'll find this new location disatisfying and come back from whence you came. We don't like new folks around here. In fact, hopefully in the next few weeks this place will become a barren wasteland again, a moist and fertile playground for soft mountians uninterrupted by scoundrels such as yourself.

So be comfortable for now, but know that I'll kill you with a smirk on my face the first chance I get.

currently: bumpy

current picture:

The Luck of the Jewish

2006-08-13T12:35:00.000-05:00

Have you ever written a character so real, so tangible, so interdependant with you that killing this character off would feel like removing a vital organ?

About, oh, three years ago I made a character like that. And for two years I've been fighting with myself if I can take her out of the environment of written roleplay and put in a novel.

Now I know what people think of when they hear the word "role play" nowadays. It's the same thoughts they have when they hear the words "star trek," "manga," "anime," or "sci fi." And while I don't boast to be above such accusations (nor am I, at least with the sci fi genre) I do want to make clear that when I say I'm in a written role play it has nothing to do with any of those words nor associations. Not that I don't salute those who are in life actions, point systems, cosplays, or anthromorphic role playing in various ways. But that it simply doesn't describe what I'm talking about.

Call it, a mixed melody of theatre geek and computer geek. Like Shakespeare on Myspace, if you will. Not that I've touting to be Shakespeare, but you get my drift, I think.

About three years ago I was just getting into internet groups. I had long been involved in a form of blogging and email and a little instant messenger. But for the first time I was actually joining all those groups I saw advertised. One of the first groups I joined was an Alan Cumming fan group. It doesn't matter the specifics of who Alan Cumming is only that he was the Emcee in a revival of Cabaret: the musical in 1998. I'm, sadly, no longer a part of the Yahoo group--but I was directed towards an interesting opportunity in writing. Stumbling in on the livejournal scene I premiered a character in a Cabaret based role playing writing group called "kit_kat_klub." The character who I premiered was called Ophilia (yes, spelled like that). She was a transsexual woman who always wore red shoes.

This character has leeched her way into every aspect of my life. Before this moment I was no more knowledgeable of transsexuals than the next computer obsessed girl. But after I researched about the lifestyle and challenges, I soon became enamoured with knowing everything. Her creation brought me to the open mind to accept films like Hedwig, Better than Chocolate, and other lower budget trans and nontransfilms. She also brought me to the realization that something existed out there that I hadn't known about before that needed to be known about.

But more than the trans aspect, Ophilia has been a part of me. Part of her that I created jumps out in me every once and a while. Her matronly attitude. Her fashion sense. Her confidence. Her ability to babble incessantly. Things that I might have posessed but weren't tapped into before. I think the thing that keeps me from writing her as a novel is the knowledge that in novel form she is more expendable, so to say. She will die just as she lives. She has a lifetime, yes, but lifetimes are mortal and I will eventually have the finalize a writing of her death. I know I will. I couldn't not.

And so I ask if anyone else has had this experience of fear and doubt in a character they've created, by whatever means. Have you ever gotten so intimate with your own character that you fear separation?

The Luck of the Jewish:
I found a check I'd forgotten to deposit in my car that's still good. Yowza!

currently: still hungry

current picture:

When Customers Go Nice or An Epiphany or Two.

2006-08-11T17:37:00.000-05:00

I should be ashamed to say this. I disgust even myself with the autrocity of ignorance in this very unlikely epiphany! But, here it lies, finally unveiled from my consciousness. I finally, at last, realized the connection with the song Sugar Daddy from Hedwig and the story: Hansel and Gretel from German folklore. Hansel traces the trail of candy back and finds a large Sugar Daddy much like Hansel and Gretel making a similar trail of bread crumbs in the woods to eventually find a large candy house. The metaphor sort of takes a U-turn, though, when the witch tries to eat Gretel. Granted I'm sure there's some hidden symbolism somewhere.

I find familiarity in the Hedwig story, which has recently become my latest revisited obsession. I say obsession in the most tame way. I may be on a Hedwig kick, listening to the soundtrack on repeat in my car. But I'm not buying tomatoes to smash on my chest anytime soon. I don't like tomatoes. Well, I have grown a fondness for the smell of them due to recent events, but I digress.

The reason why Hedwig resonates with me so strongly is that I find a nearly impossible kind of kinship with the main character. We are so different, the fictional character and I, that it is incredibly improbable that anything familiar be identified. But, being able to tell that there are similarities makes me hope that, maybe, because I can find similarities in a character most unlike me maybe I'm not so odd nor strange as I first thought. Because I've perceived myself so contrary to everyone else it gives me a kind of lift that maybe because I can find familiarity in a character who I also find contrary to myself, maybe I fit in more than I thought I did.

You know, it's an entire misconception that the odd people want to be odd. The truly odd have this nearly illegal desire to be normal. To be able to socialize like everyone else does. To be able to connect in a way other than through the back door of people's personalities. Hedwig brings a very important theme to the forefront. This was brought up with Rocky Horror Picture Show, but in a different more abstract sort of sporatic way. I would never compare the two except to say they both give freaks (self titled and societal) something to grasp and belong to. Something that makes sense in a way that only they, okay 'we,' can understand. You can't tell us something. You've got to show us in vibrant colors of joy and pain. We don't get subtle hints. We usually don't give them either.

But who am I to speculate the freaks? And why am I going by the slang term? I should just use the scientific term: homosapiens. It gets closer to the point that way, I think.

When Customers Go Nice:
I'm struggling with an awkward box.

Let me take a moment to shush the perversions out of my head before I go on.

Ah, there. Released, all better now.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, it seems, a customer leaps out with kempt blonde hair and a pudgy, though helpful, hand. She moves the obstacle of my concern, a flap of a box where I am trying to put the box in my hand at.

Let me take another moment to shush the perversions out of my head...

Okay...no wait...

Alright! All clear!

She says, "There, that might be easier." I give her a sincere thankyou and go on with my life.

I think in this world of retail hell it is with the most sincerest of thankyous that we should give any customer going out of their way to prove that they aren't all controlling, impatient, ignorant, mean-spirited jerks of leeches. No judgement, of course.

currently: hog swaddled

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For All Those Who Wanted One for Christmas and/or Your Birthday

2006-08-09T22:01:00.000-05:00

Driving down whatever turns into Vandosdale on my way back from work I saw the most curious sight. When you think of the animal kingdom you think of dignity. Respect. Nature! But society has banged it into our heads (I talk about society as a generalization way too much, sometimes) that nature is graceful and regal and, for some reason, appropriate. Why nature would be appropriate is beyond me. But taking all of this self-allowed conditioning into my head, you can imagine my amusement at a pony scratching its arse on the fence right in front of me.

This wasn't just a momentary pause at the fence. This little fellow had a deep down burrowing kind of itch that lasted even after I turned. And I honestly think that fart knew what he was doing when he picked the side of the fence that every human in their obtrusive automobiles could have a clear view of.

It's like if a fairy expelled gas. You would expect a cow or even a large horse to expunge themselves of an itch, but ponies are higher in the hierarchy of perfect animals. I just keep thinking of a little girl (or boy) who wanted that cute pink or rainbow pony seeing this determined little khaki colored mini-horse scratching its rear-end on that chain-link fence right in front of their cherry-cheeked little faces. It does my heart good.

currently: pigging out

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One Box, Two Box, Red Box, Blue Box. Big Box, Tack Box, White Box, Black Box.

2006-08-09T14:27:00.000-05:00

I'm ridiculously excited about volunteering at the Black Box Theatre. It's certainly an opportunity to, for once, step within the mysterious biology of theatre that I've always wondered about.

Now, I am in no way an actor. And, admittedly, I'm frightened of any number of people looking at me no matter the activity. Remember? I'm the haphazardly painted chair on the side of the set. And though necessary to a certain aspect of the play, haphazardly painted chairs are not usually required to memorize lines or interact with actors except if the actor draws notice to the chair.

Like, "Why look at that fine chair! What a fine chair! Oh, but I'm much too excited to sit in this fine furniture speciman." Because it is painted, after all.

I used to act when I was younger. I think I would have had more confidence if I hadn't have had to say anything memorized. I've a horrid terrible memory. Or perhaps it was my fear that I would forget something that made my memory so bad. It's a quintessential chicken and egg metaphor. Does my memory fail first and then I get scared or does getting scared cause my memory to fail?

I'm not sure if anyone remembers Christy: The Musical. It played in Townsend for three years until it went flat broke. They made a tv series on it too. The entire shortlived hooplah was spawned by a best selling book about a young woman who comes to the mountains to teach in a school. A plague of typhoid breaks out and people die. And, of course, there's a lovers triangle.

In the musical I played a really bad dancer school kid. That wasn't my title, but I was a really bad dancer, so that is the title I'd given myself. I loved it and hated it. I got paid for it. So there ya go. I wasn't terribly social and my feet stank. But I think the entire experience taught me that when you I am faced with a decision to do something or simply quit I'll do it no matter how bad the outcome.

Why? Maybe I don't want to let anyone down. Or maybe it's simply that when faced with a challenge, even if I'm petrified, I'll try. Even if I think I'm going to fail, I'll try. Unless I see it's impossible or my passions lie opposite of the obstacle, I'll give it a go. And as I've gotten older it's gotten even more meaningful. I'll add, because what do I have to lose? I've already decided that my dignity is history for initially subjecting myself to such a seemingly impossible task. So what else do I have to lose? Unless it's an arm.

I enjoy all of my limbs.

currently: stinky

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Up Your Nose with a Rubber Hose

2006-08-07T14:09:00.000-05:00

Oh work, how I love thee so--she says in bitter sarcasm laced with arsenic.

I had a chance, today, to sort out the holds to be sent back to their departments. I got a perverse pleasure from this act. This all goes back to when my shoes were shoved away unrelentingly and I, by pure chance, found them once again on the sales rack before they were sold to someone who really didn't deserve them as much as I.

With each rip of trashbag plastic holding a gluttonous bag of neglected clothing I got all the more furious at whoever removed my shoe's protrayal to me when I saw dates as early as my own shoved to the back of the hold shelf having lingered much more than the three standard layaway days. My face grew bitter in disdain for these people I only knew by first initials and last names.

Holds shouldn't even exist in stores! If one doesn't have the money right then to buy something that they believe they need, why should they save money for that same something down the road? (i'mahipocrit) If it wasn't important enough to have right that moment, why should one plan to buy it in the future? (i'mabighipocrit) It's all this material wealth, which really doesn't exist at all. People put on hold this bounty of clothing and pillows and stinky awful rugs and never come back for them. As if by putting them on hold they're buying them temporarily, because at least they tried to be hip and chic and hott.

"Oh, this shirt is cute."
"Oh! I think I put that on hold. I forgot all about it. But isn't it?"

As if their forgetfulness allows them the title of much too high up in their thinking to care for such things while they still remain tasteful and cool.

I opened a bag in fury and smelt the most disdainful odor I think I have ever smelt. It smelled of pooh covered in chocolate and burnt hair. It was a set of forgotten rugs. And this made me mad. How dare those people forget their stinky rugs. My Cod! If you're going to set aside a set of stinky rugs for your stinky enjoyment at least have the decency to buy them! Mr. Hip. Mrs. Cool. Ms. Sheek. C'mon, I know you want them.

Then again, I'm a hipocrit. Then again, isn't everyone who wishes to grow past their current situation, at some point, a hipocrit to their own rants?

"Excuse me! Miss! Your sign says bras that are 14 dollars are 6.50. I dare you to find a 14 dollar bra in there."
It's not my sign. But I look. No. There isn't one. The sign is completely wrong.
"I'm sorry, sometimes all the prices on the sign aren't in the bra set."
"Maybe the set is wrong. This place is a mess!"
I meant to tidy up, but you didn't call ahead. It doesn't always look like this, I swear. You are a stupid stupid woman. I'm sorry. You're not stupid.
(same woman) "Ma'am! I'm probably the customer from hell..."
Yes, you are.
"...But how do you figure this 60% off?"
I reread the sign.
"You take 33% off the yellow-ticket price."
"Oh, how much is 33% off of 18 dollars?"
Up your butt with a rubber nut.
"I'm not very good with math. But there's a price check--"
"Oh yes, we went there and it said it was 12 something."
Her mother figures it out.
"I think that's right."
"Oh. Okay. Sorry."
I'm very tempted to take back my 'you're not stupid' headvoice comment.

And, is it petty that I want to buy myself a yellow bra so my boobs will look like two large lemons? Just so I can say, "You can squeeze them in your sweet iced tea if you want."

currently: salty

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Yes I have one.

2006-08-06T18:58:00.000-05:00

I do have a myspace. I was convinced that with my internet related addictive personality I would become absolutely obsessed with the convenience of the Myspace continuum. I was absolutely sure that in a couple of days you would find me with my fingers stuck to the keyboard and my mouth ajar looking at the all the possibilities out there.

I think it's too easy for me on myspace. You have everything right there at the click of a button. If I wanted to stalk someone, I'd know exactly where to go in order to stalk them. No, I like here because there is virtually no way to easily contact anyone you know on Blogger. They don't even have a reply option on comments people make to your journal. At least, not one that I've found quite yet.

No, myspace is too forgiving. It's too simple for my mind to wrap around it. I must have complexities. I must be baffled at every turn of my blogging experience otherwise I will suffocate in the mass quantities of friends who will never look at my blog but will be satisfied in knowing that they have earned yet another friend whom they most likely they will never talk to.

It's like holding a mirror up to a mirror and seeing thousands upon thousands of repeated pictures. You could turn all day and never actually talk to the next reflected image. But it is somehow satisfying to presume that, maybe, though you're standing by yourself in your living room, your not alone as long as you look in a reflective surface.

I went to Jodie Manross' Myspace a little while ago. I considered requesting friendship. But then I thought, do we know each other enough to become Myspace buddies? I don't even know her favorite color! How can I presume to ask someone to be my friend who I've only talked to in limited times between performances? Myspace is taking all the fabulousness out of the word friend and reducing it to a simple agreement that, yes, you can leave me messages. Gee, if that were true the penis enlargement people that have found my email address would be my lifelong buddies.

But I digress. For some reason I was spared the addiction to myspace that other people seem to have. I will say this one thing. There is a queer looking fellow on Jodie's myspace friend list. He wears a blonde wig and calls himself Hedwig. He must be a big fan of Harry Potter, hm? His profile is on private. Very mysterious. He must be a spy. *shifty eyes*

currently: bloated

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Just One of Those Introspective Thangs

2006-08-06T13:06:00.000-05:00

Today at church an excerpt of my work from a book I'm published in was read as part of the lesson. It's one of those moments in life where your breath is taken away. Yesterday night my breath was also stolen as Hedwig kissed me on the lips...well...close enough anyway. But it's not the fact that I was picked out from a crowd of people that impressed on me so much, but that I meant something enough to be seperate in this amazing audience enough to be singled out.

Here I am. I'm a background girl all the way. If life were a stage I'd be the chair that was always in the background to create the scene but never acknowledged or even sat in.I might not even be a real chair, I might be a realistically painted facsimile of a chair on the wooden panelled set. Now, don't think I'm depressed and find myself insignificant. I don't. I'm of consequence to the situation. Usually. I have the honor of being the ultimate spectator. Yesterday was a rare day of spotlight. It was nice. Today has been similar, though with lesser flair and tomato juice.

I find my life suddenly moving foreward. And, even more significant than this, I believe I've found my life. I thought it was stuck in the back of the dryer, but here its been the whole time.

No one ever wants to admit their own successes. To do that would seem egotistical. Society deems such self-adorement over-bearing and extraneous. If you're good you'll know it by the paparazzi's direction and the amount of coke you snort in ability to regain confidence. Or, if you're well adjusted, you'll be a one-hit wonder.

And so something deep down in my psyche, conditioned with precise care, hurts and pains at the admission that my writing is something of calliber enough to effect someone. My ego shivers in anticipation at the brush to its tangled mess of contradictions.

But, I like my writing. And I want to paint with my words in that totally overused cliche kind of way. I want to effect people and maybe give them a new direction of looking at things. Turn things counterclockwise. Turn the page of life upside down. My talk with Mr. Beuerlein yesterday night and the fact that he's been reading gives me a confidence I can't explain except to say that if I mean more than a painting of a chair on the backdrop of some lesser than par level performance of some lesser than par level play, maybe I can mean more to everyone else in that same way.

I'm having a good day.

I'm going to buy some pencils that aren't piss-colored.

currently: I feel so...optomistic!

current picture:

On Killing My Giddy Laughter

2006-08-06T00:06:00.000-05:00

Dear A.C. Moore...no, I mean--Entertainment...

Dear A.C. Entertainment...

Hm.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Entertainment...

Dear Sir and/or Madame of the Entertainment group known as A.C...

Hey! Yo Entertainment brotha's!

Hm.

Update on wig-making:

The foam and fabric outlet is, indeed, the place to go to make your very own Hedwig obsessive fanatical wig, which you well eventually get autographed in obsessive fanatical fashion. Here's what you do:

You traverse the craft stores in K-town until you decide to go to the foam and fabric outlet because if you just go straight to the store you need you won't have wasted enough time at the other places, nor gotten to buy that fabulous shiny silver shirt that you'll wear to the play. Soon after you find that perfect 16 by 16, 1.5 inch thick foam scrap piece you're going to want to make a wiggy sort of squiggly outline. Cut a lot of foam off of the squiggly outline. What foam on the floor? You're being creative, screw the foam. Soon after that denial you're going to clean up the foam.

Acrylic paint on foam. Spray paint will eat foam, any foam. You'll be left with a melted flat wig if you use spray paint. Though--that might be interesting too.

Buy plastic head bands. Don't use them. For Cod's sakes, you hardly have time to wait for the paint to dry, let alone glue on the head bands. Besides, you're quirky, your wig falling off will work for you.

Go to the play. Pretend you're going to wear the obese wig throughout the whole play until someone tap taps your mom on the shoulder and asks...you're not gonna--Oh no! We're not! *cheese*

On how to get a smooch from the fabulous lead actor:

step one:
look at him goofily because you're too damn excited to smile evenly with your mouth
step two:
write a nonsensical blog. pretend your an intellectual introspective person on it. being an intellectual introspective person is not required.
step three:
make obnoxious foam wig. the power of the wig shall not be ignored.

On how not to recieve a smooch from the fabuluos lead actor:

step one:
He's not just going to hug you.
step two:
Yes, those are his lips on your...lipcheek? Yeah, you turned cause you thought he was going to just hug you.
step three:
Lose your glasses on your chin. No, really. It's hot.

Dear Big A.C.!

Dear Ack!

Dear...dear.

L.E. Smith and I made wigs and went to the last Hedwig show where I was smooched in an askewed, awkward fashion (I'm really no good at kissing the boys) by a shirtless man.

Afterwards, high from the experience, I would giggle with girlish glee at memories of the interactions with the cast from the show. It was much like having tourettes syndrome of the girlish glee gland. I think the most surprising thing was that Mr. Joe B. knew who I was. I played it cool though...

Um. Sorta.

Dear A.C. Entertainment,

I'll...get back to you when I'm not exhausted...

I'm going to contact Miss Amy Hubbard. I really want to get involved with the Black Box actors co-op. I would love to be a part of the writing.

Oh, my shoes are fabulous. I think that needs reiterating.

The smell of tomatoes has a whole new meaning for me.

Dear ACE! Ventura? Pet...detective...

I'm disjointed.

Alright, you. Go to sleep.

Alright.

I'll see you in the morning.

Goodnight. Good dormancy everyone.

currently: afloat

current picture:

Home and Wig Making: Part One, Finding the Materials

2006-08-05T12:34:00.000-05:00

To successfully construct a Hedwig foam wig L.E. Smith and I have decided to peruse the local craft stores for an appropriate foam material. So far, we've traversed Joanne ETC, A.C. Moore, and Hobby Lobby. For a good 12 by 18 inch piece of moderately thick foam we've found the best deal, so far, at Hobby Lobby (brand name FoamTastic as apposed to the more expensive Foamies.)

We've yet to go to the Foam and Fabric outlet, though, which might yield better results.

The color has also become an issue as there are two shades of yellow. One shade is bright, one hue below highlighter yellow while the other has more of a golden rod-esque theme. Both are 3mm thick and we surmise it will take two of them to make a suitably thick non-flemsy wig.

Will update eventually if a computer becomes available in the latter part of the day.

currently: geekwigged

current picture:

Womanhood half restored--and then some.

2006-08-04T12:32:00.000-05:00

So here we are still moping around the Kohl's shopping center the next day lazily searching over various textures, sizes, shapes, colors, and styles of shoes ranging from tennis to sports to formal to casual, sandals, highheels, strappies, boots even. (No slingbacks quite yet.) My eyes graze over the clearance rack like a cow over dead grass when suddenly my eyes catch a blade. It is bright blue standing straight on its end. It is staring at me, urging me to its solemn rest in its cardboard coffin. Little blue bits of straps to cuddle sharply into my toes. They are--my shoes.

They've been in the shoe stockroom all this time! Hiding their little cute bohemian style from my grasp. I immediately put them on hold.

Along with:

*Three pairs of earrings
*Two skirts
*And a pair of black, wingtip, high-heeled, Mary-Janes that I will not buy, but will look at longingly before I put them back on the rack.

Granted, most of this (sans my savior shoes) is for my halloween costume. I'm going to be Angel from RENT. Which would be much more humorous if one knew what I looked like.

currently: vagina

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Is it Horrid that My Two Picks are Both a Bit Queer?

2006-08-01T19:11:00.000-05:00

September
Black Box Theatre Unidentified Human Remains and the Nature of True Love
August 24-September 16

November
Clarence Brown Theatre The Laramie Project
November 9-19th

Yeah, I know it's only two so far. There were the only two I could find that really interested me.

currently: finicky

current picture:

To Mourn the Non-Birth of my Woman Half

2006-08-01T18:09:00.000-05:00

Let me begin this by off-topic conversation.

I'm wondering if anyone else besides me thinks that the verse in Sugar Daddy (yes, I'm still on my Hedwig kick) that goes:

"I'll be your Venus
On a chocolate clamshell
Riding on a sea of
Marshmallow foam"

is hard to sing?

No worries on answering. There's a good possiblity that was a rhetorical question.

----on track----

I'm not a womanly woman so to say. If anything, I barely reach the girl-mark before I come tumbling down from the metaphoric womanhood symbol of stepping in mommy's high heels. I tell you this to show you the impact of my current semi-psuedo depression over the loss of the shoes I held hostage in the "hold" area (think "layaway," Wal*mart shoppers) until some meany took them back to the floor and they got sold.

They were beautiful. Like little blue strappy cupcakes for my toes to lick at. They weren't modern, I'm certain. Out of date, for sure. They were on clearance. Yellow-ticket yummies. And now some size six twit is squishing her smelly toes in my shoes. Or maybe some very small preteen transsexual is, let's not leave out that option. Or maybe a big pawed dog. I dunno. I don't care. I just want my shoes back. My cute Mudd brand clearance priced cupcake tastey shoes.

While they might not be my first interest in shoes they are my first depression over not having them. It may seem petty, and this too shall pass, but for now I am happy to gripe and live in the sulking of the loss of my outdated tootsie huggers.

Besides, I'm going to Hedwig on Saturday.

Without my pretty, delicious shoes...

I obviously need a little more mope time.

I should look on some Knoxville Theatre Page and see what plays are coming next month that I can invest in. That will make me the taddest bit happy, I'm sure.

currently: all a-mope

current picture:

Months 1&2 Hedwig and the Angry Inch

2006-07-31T11:05:00.000-05:00

Ticket order for Hedwig and the Angry Inch put in for this coming Saturday. CHECK!

So, remember that plan I talked about in my last journal entry? The one about seeing one play per month. I've added a disclaimer. If a particularly good play goes to two months and your work schedule just happens to fall that you could see it two times per two months then that play can and will count for both months even if it's the same play.

I'm taking my mom to see it. I think she'll adore it and we both need a bit of cheering up and escapism as it comes to our financial situation. Granted, I'm spending more money which seems to add onto our current disability with money, but it seems like what we need. One of those emotional girl things where my logical male half is shoved to the back of the room to sit in the corner and think about what money we're just throwing into the wind.

I'm not stereotyping here by saying girls are passionate and boys are logical. I'm generalizing. There's a distinctive, yet equally offensive, difference.

The thing is, about a play like this, there is no doubt it will not be the same play that was seen Thursday. If my dad was here and not in a nursing home he'd probably squint his eyes and ask "Why would you want to see the same play again for more money than the first time?" And I would reply, "Because it was fantastic the first time. But it won't be the same kind of fantastic the second time." And he would tilt his head down and bury his eyes up into his salt and pepper eyebrows and shake his head "no." Lucky for me, he's not here to offer such sage advice.

Now, with something like Big River not much is going to change during the course of its performances (though I sincerely doubt that anyone went to see that musical more than once because it was just so fantastic. Now, it was good, I don't argue that. But something was lacking and nagging and, oh yes, the lead roll. Anyway, I'm sure I'm offending someone otherwise fabulous. So I'll stop here.) Big River is that type of structured sort of performance that can't lead to much deviation unless a pink elephant drops squarely on the lead's head. (tee, okay, now I'll stop) The only big way it could change is if the lead or other members were any more on key or less on key or didn't get their lines or delivered their lines in a different way from one night to the other.

I think I just adore the black box theatre style, too. I love seeing people who won't follow the actors as they move around. They just stare at the stage-like side and ignore their peripheral perhaps in some desperate hope that they'll come back to the stage and everything be like it should again. I'm an "over-turner", I find. I turn at everything. If the character went completely behind me I'd be face to face with them before they could tap me on the shoulder. Also, I watch other characters as they leave. I want to see everything. It's very exciting. I'm like a kitten being waved with a little fuzzy ball.

*boink boink* Oooh! Left now!
*boink boink* Oooh! To the right! Look at that!
*boink boink* *falls on head*

I was reading something on here about making your blog popular. It said to by no means write diatribes and keep your paragraphs and entries short and to the point. I'm glad I don't have the desire to impart my wisdom on the masses with short to-the-point entries. It'd probably lead to some sort of genocide eventually.

currently: freckled and pimpled.

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A Little Bit of Culture in My Life, A Little Bit of Live Shows By My Side

2006-07-30T23:57:00.000-05:00

Okay. Here's a thing I don't like about myself:

I'm an uncultured swine. It's really that simple. I sit here and act as if my grammatical expressions are the result of some sleepless studies of obsessive reading over the great authors of our times, but it's not. None of it is. You know the latest book I've read? Me neither! I can't remember for the life of me the last time I read something that was more than a magazine article long.

(sidenote: I miss-spelled viciously in my last entry. Not the first time. Yeah, that one. Apologies.)

Don't get me wrong. I want nothing more but to be cultured, obnoxiously so. I want to be so cultured that my nose literally turns up at the end (a feat for a jewish girl). But, also, in addition to all that, I want to see more plays. I want to save money from going to movies and see plays. Let me rewrite that: I want to have money to see more plays. There, revision was needed.

Here's the thing, culture costs money. I realize this. But here's another thing. If I want it I will sacrifice to get it. I think it's a little whiney? No, maybe not whiney. Maybe it's more of an excuse thing. People who say they want to see more plays and then claim to have no money for it. If you love shoes enough to buy them in mass quantities despite your apparent lack of money, if you love technology enough to buy cameras despite your apparent lack of money, or if you love movies enough to rent and purchase them despite that same lack of money then love plays enough to buy one ticket to one play a month (like a monthly fee on cultural enlightenment) instead of buying that new dress, new shoes, box of cigarettes, or Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked half-pint of icecream (guilty).

But, if you're in a bind like I am and you can't afford any of the other stuff to begin with, don't fret. Culture is in everything. You could go downtown, but I'm telling you that life is a fantastic experiment in culture. Ya don't have to sit in a chair and watch someone onstage to be culture-fied. Though, if you get a chance to see a play, I recommend trying everything, both the bad and good. One play bi-yearly. Quarterly.

My new goal. A play a month. Paying off my play bill. ...*snort*

Ah, but I'm cheating. I've heard-tell of a little blog round these parts. KnoxTheatre
A local little blog with a man who seems to be on the nudge nudge with the local theatre and performances. I'm hoping his reviews will help me pick that fraction of my paycheck to use best. And if not, that pair of shoes has been calling my name for a week.

currently: ambitious

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But You Can't Take the Sky From Meeee.

2006-07-30T22:21:00.000-05:00

I may be wrong, but I think I'm actually starting to get addicted to this thing. We might need an intervention soon.

scene:
Me sitting crouched over with claw-like fingers tip-tapping across the keyboard like some vicious perpetual riverdance.

Pan over to a group of figures silhouetted by my sunny window, curtains drawn, as they've opened them.

Close up on me hissing in disdain of the natural light hiding my unnatural soothing computer light.

Them: You need help.

Me: You don't know meeeeeeeee! *shriek, run away, monitor trailing behind me*

Okay, so maybe it won't be that dramatic. But think of the possibilities! I could actually go into a vicious mind-numbing withdrawl!

Speaking of vicioius and mind-numbing. I just got back from work where, for eight hours, I stocked accessories. Belts wrapped in bags wrapped in bigger bags. Hose put in boxes put in bigger boxes. Purses stuck in plastic wrapped in bigger plastic. The tagging of purses and wallets. And, my favorite, the one belt wrapped in a bag, bubble wrapped at the buckle, and put in a long, wide box. I opened it and stared numbly into what my fate had become.

I need another job.

A better job.
A job that doesn't entail either putting out stock or picking up doo doo and puke from the floors of the store.
A job where human contact isn't necessary.

currently: misguided

current picture:

Hed-Wigging Out

2006-07-30T08:25:00.000-05:00

My mind is full of Hedwig today and I'm not quite certain why. I suppose its better full of Hedwig than full of, say, a thousand heads being decapitated all at the same time. No, just one head. I suppose that's a bit harsh of me to say, though. What can I say? It's nine thirty in the a.m. I'm just barely glossy-eyed and rat-tailed.

Have you ever been so incredibly lazy that instead of edging your fingers up to the numbers line or across to the numbers pad you'd much rather type the numbers out? See example above.

But about Hedwig. There's a song, I think it's called "Exquisite Corpse," where there is a verse that Yitzhak sings that goes "Tornado body with a hand grenade head and legs are two lovers intertwined" (forgive the errors for my brain might have fragmented my memory on that one) and I can't help thinking what a fantasticly horrible picture that is. I'm just picturing this person with its head exploding bleeding from this twisted wrecked body not even able to run away because its so tied up in getting back together that it falls flat on its headless, warped torso of a body. It's gruesome but, somehow, relatable.

I've never been in muskrat love. I've infatuated, don't get me wrong. I think everyone has infatuated at some point about someone or even something. Who knows, girls could be falling in infatuation with their vibrators everytime they come home from a hard day's work from dodging grabs and comments from their chauvenistic boss or lesbian secretary.

But we're not talking about my fantasies, we're talking about me not ever feeling that draw to be in full, idiotic, lose control of, mind-numbing, blind, spiteful, wonderful, painful, love. And I've never been there. I think I was almost there once. But she had a girlfriend. A tall redheaded fantastic girlfriend who I could have easily been attracted to myself. A sweet girl who I couldn't be sour to for anything.

So there you have it. I probably wouldn't have fallen in love with her anyhow. Though I can't think of a viable reason right now why not.

It all comes back to ego, though. It has to. That's the only thing anyone really knows about, themselves. And if they don't know that, I sincerely doubt that they would ever be in a successful relationship lasting a span of lifetimes. It makes sense to me that more divorces happen each year because U.S. society creates a thick barrier between knowing who we are and knowing who we should be at any point in time.

Not that I'm for anarchy, because I'm not. I'm sure many people are and that's fine with me if they are just don't invite me to your world, I don't want to go. Nice place to visit but wouldn't want to get shot there. Structure has to exist because without structure there'd be no civilization. But, then again, who says we need civilization to survive? Oh, yes, every species of animals that have some sort of their own civilization. Lions have a pride. They're not dead. Wolves have a pack, last I saw they weren't on the endangered species list either. Actually, they might be...anyway!

Granted, we aren't animals. Well, we are but *wink wink, nudge nudge* we're "not." We are the mighty human beings! We have sophisticated levels of groups that don't strike out needlessly against other groups despite protest from half the population to the contrary of the situation for simple governmental economical gain! Do we! Do we? Oh, for Cod's sakes, everyone knows I'm not a political girl. The most I can do is hint at my disdain. Besides, it's 9:42a.m. and I've already babbled to my invisible audience enough.

Go have a poptart, someone.

currently: drowsy

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Goodmorning.

2006-07-29T12:24:00.000-05:00

I would like to argue the fact that morning officially starts when the sun rises. I dispute that morning begins only in the a.m. of the day and not the nearly p.m. of afternoon. In fact, I deny the fact that morning should even exist in the world. I believe that when we wake up it should be the beginning and when we go to sleep it should be the dormant (because end sounds too much like we're dying).

So Good Beginning, everyone. No matter when you're waking up. Noon, afternoon, or even sometime in the evening after a long sunlight's worth of sleep.

Now to break the fast, pay my bills, follow up on my procrastination during the week, call my Betty, and go to work.

currently: awake?

current picture:

Disclaimer: Minor Urine References Within

2006-07-29T01:05:00.000-05:00

Who decided that the default color for pencils should be this sort of offish yellow? And it is offish. It's not even true yellow. It's like if yellow had relations with a yellow/orange and its love child was default color pencil yellow. You would think that the default color for pencils would be--like--wood. Or something. Maybe that shade of yellow is so unpopular that it was the cheapest coating in which to make the pencils. They had, like, three gazillion tanks of this yellow and kids everywhere were getting splinters from their uncoated wood-color pencils and they had to coat them with something so kids wouldn't get splinters and so they coated them with all this three cents a bucket ugly arse yellow hue.

And maybe the number 2 isn't really the hardness of the graphite. Maybe it's actually a denotation that this was their second attempt at making a successfully functioning pencil. It's all psychosematic, really. Erasers are pink for the sole reason that erasers are pink. Pink Pearl made a fortune making huge hand erasers and then everyone was like, I want to make my eraser that sort of pink salmony color too! And so there it was.

It's sort of like toilet paper. You know, we bleach our toilet paper. Paper isn't white, contrary to popular belief. We bleach our toilet paper even though we don't have to and it pollutes our lakes and streams. Because brown toilet paper would be sort of redundant, I guess. We need to see if our piss is an unusual hue. I suppose. I'm sorry if anyone read that sentence.

I think if someone dressed in pencil coordination with a sort of grey scarf or bandana and pencil yellow dress or shirt with a black pant, if applicable, donning sort of salmon pink shoes with silver accents I don't think they'd look terribly good. Though, on the other hand, I find pencil thin mustaches attractive on some people. And pencil skirts are quite nice, though I'm too short to pull one off. Pencils have inspired many a fabulous trendy look. They just look like piss on a stick. My apologies, again, to anyone who read that last bit.

currently: stubbornly awake

current picture:

Flower Pothed. Wig in a Box.

2006-07-28T23:57:00.000-05:00

Flower pots are very pretty. They can be painted quaintly and set upon shelves. They can be broken and taken a a dramatic abstract picture of. They can be packed with dirt and be planted with seeds. They can be packed with fake dirt and planted with fake pansies.

Flower pots are dynamic. They can be big or small. They can be so large to fit a small tree or fern into. Or they can be so small to fit a Food City Mother's Day Cactus or Venus Flytrap into. Or they can just be flower pots. I'd rather them be just flower pots because I have a notorious black thumb known throughout the flower pot consortium.

I saw a play last night at the local Black Box Theatre. I think the best productions of any sort (be it movie or play or book) are those who encorporate a fantastic story around a universal, nearly cliched, theme. Find yourself within yourself, what you were looking for all the time. But dress it up in a stylish wig and fantastic costume changes in a German accent and a botched, reluctant SRS and you've got this manic search for something everyone wants regardless of their similarities to the character or situation.

Hedwig is one of my favorite productions. I own the movie, have watched the commentary, dream of owning a foam fanwig, drool over the idea of owning Wig In A Box, and pine over the main character with the geekish glee akin to cultivating a pocket protector in a plaid shirt breast pocket. I know that's old-fashion. I'm just not hip with the current batch of retro-geeks these days to offer a more applicable analogy.

And I will be leaving a comment at Mr. Joe's blog (the actor who will be playing Hedwig this weekend and next before the show ends) because I'm not a stalker. I'm a fan. I'm sure there's a difference.

currently: Hedhead

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