Bleccccchhhh. I miss blogging.
May 2004 Archives
Sunday Night
As this looks to be a very busy week here (taking Friday off for an early start on the camping trip), posting will be accordingly light. I thought I'd take a stab at blogging the night before, so I'm starting this on Sunday night, drinking a beer and reading while H.J. is drawing a picture of George Washington with some sort of bizarre bamboo calligraphy pen (please don't ask).
Despite some regular Sunday night sadness (I always get the blues on Sunday nights), it was a fun weekend (and yes, I worked out every day of it). Friday night we went to a sixteenth birthday party for H.J.'s co-worker's daughter. The co-worker is married to a lovely Columbian woman, and apparently the sixteenth birthday is a big deal in the culture. Since I didn't find out until a few hours before that these things are a fairly formal affair, I had to throw an outfit together in a hurry. I didn't leave in the best of moods when we headed off to somewhere in the depths of Queens.
The party, however, ended up being a great time. It was at a catering hall that apparently hosts many of these shindigs, judging from the music blaring from many rooms down the halls. There was much dancing, which basically guarantees a good time for me. I have no idea how to salsa or merengue (all my knowledge of those dances comes from Dirty Dancing; even the word "merengue" first recalls the white goo on top of lemon pie), but we were good sports and danced with some of H.J.'s other co-workers, as one of his friends' kids, Fred, bobbed and wove between the dancing couples. I drank a lot of white wine (I usually prefer red, but I heard on some good authority that the white was better), H.J. a lot of JD on the rocks. I hadn't drunk that much in a long time, so it was great fun, particularly since we got a ride (in a car!) home.
Saturday was really laid back since we were both still hungover and H.J. is always exhausted after his painting class. We watched Mishima and a Samuel Fuller movie, Underworld U.S.A. that's great, like all the Samuel Fuller films I've seen so far (he's creeping up to top five status for favorite directors).
Monday Morning
Yesterday it was so freakin' hot here, so after lazing around all morning, I went to buy a pair of shorts (no, I didn't have any!) and met H.J. in the park for a little Frisbee. The fact is, I suck at Frisbee and apparently provided much amusement to assorted folks on park benches as my throws sent the disc wildly careening toward their heads. I improved a lot, though. Sorry, Mattthew... I know Frisbee is the California State Sport, but I'm not going to be entering into any competitions in the near future.
And now it's Monday. If anybody does still read this thing, I apologize for the rambling, boring, diary-like post.
(Yes, I realize the song is facetious.)
OK, so I'm not terribly surprised. I took the Christian Science Monitor Quiz: Are You a Neoconservative, and it turns out I'm a [Dirty] Liberal. Why, oh why, do I continue to take quizzes that tell me what i already know?
The whole world loves a quiz.
Thx to The Corsair, who seems like a genuinely nice guy, for the link. Fancy new look, by the way!
After a rousing discussion of Dolly Parton on IM yesterday, I sent my friend Toby that horrible photo of Courtney Love. He said, "Who is that? Dolly Parton deflated?"
I can't figure out which is funnier, the comment or the fact that he actually didn't know who Courtney Love is.
I wonder if anyone has ever tried to market a vibrator that comes equipped with a heart rate monitor so it can adjust the experience accordingly? That way it could hold you off if you're headed a little too quickly toward the sweet spot, or speed up if your mind is starting to wander. Or it could have a little display that coaches you like the machines at the gym that say SLOW DOWN TO REDUCE HEART RATE or RESISTENCE INCREASING TO MAINTAIN TARGET HEART RATE:
For the too-speedy:
A ONE-MINUTE WOMAN IS NOT MUCH BETTER
2 WORDS: PAUL WOLFOWITZ
A GENERATOR IS A MACHINE THAT CONTAINS A POWERFUL MAGNET THAT CREATES A MAGNETIC FIELD/WHEN WIRES ARE ROTATED RAPIDLY THROUGH THIS FIELD, THEN A CURRENT OF ELECTRICITY IS PRODUCED (ELECTRICITY, E-LEC-TRI-CI-TY)
For the slowpoke:
WHAT, AM I NOT WORKING HARD ENOUGH FOR YOU? I GIVE AND I GIVE...
FINISH THIS AND YOU CAN HAVE A COOKIE
Had a good, if mostly uneventful weekend. On Friday night, we saw The Saddest Music in the World, which should have been named The Disappointingest Movie in the World. Do NOT believe the critics on this one, who must have given it good reviews because they thought they should. It was mean-spirited and pretentious, and only sporadically and reluctantly funny. I have walked out of one movie in my life, and that was The Cell with Jennifer Lopez, but I nearly walked out of this one. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone.
On the way home from the theater, however, we had a Vincent Gallo sighting. He was walking downtown alone near Astor Place and looked both of us in the eye, as if expecting for us to recognize him. Of course we both did, but I made a very deliberate attempt not to show it in my face. If you've ever read an interview with him, you know he seems proud of being a prick-and-a-half, but I must admit to his also being a double helping of ugly-hot. He reminds me of a Civil War soldier.
Anyway, that's all I've got today. In one other small piece of news, I've told Kenny he can post on Teapot whenever he feels like it. Here's hoping he feels like it soon, because I've become quite the lazy blogger of late.
(p.s. Congrats to the Mattts. You know what I'm sayin.)
It's a slow, languid day at Casa Gusto. I'm tired, work is slow, and the mugginess is sort of bearing down on me. I don't really have anything going on to blog about. If I had my 'druthers, I'd flop down on the couch and take a nice nap with the fan on full-blast.
I am, however, getting excited about a recently-proposed camping trip for Memorial Day weekend with friends Emily & Toby. Those who know me well may be surprised to hear the words "excited" and "camping" in the same sentence, but the promise of great company and a bottle of red wine beats out any other considerations.
My camping experience (albeit limited) has been widely variable. The first time I ever went was a lovely time at Lake Harris in the Adirondacks. It was a very low-impact trip for the first time out, just at a little State Park (yes, I know these are the scourge of the real camper). But we had the prettiest little spot right by the lake, and it was really relaxing.
My second trip, however, was a nightmare. When we drove into the National Park at Bar Harbor, the people at the gate handed us a flyer picturing the terrifying visage of a raccoon with large type explaining that the park had been overrun and that we should UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES feed them, look them in the eye, or talk behind their backs (pick one). In retrospect, we probably should have found another place to stay right then.
Things were great until nightfall. We had some delicious grilled meatloaf sandwiches from the cooler H.J.'s parents had packed us before we left from their place. We roasted marshmallows. We snuggled into our tent, happy as clams. "I loooooooove camping."
That's when the scratching started. Long, sharp claws scratching the tent by our heads. Then by our feet. Finally, unable to sleep, I begged H.J. to come with me to take a drive for a while. We made as much noise as we could to scare off the masked masses, and ran to the car. Driving out of the campground, we saw lines of ten, twenty, thirty raccoons. This campground was clearly theirs, and we were the intruders.
Yes, I am a total wuss, but we enjoyed the rest of beautiful Bar Harbor from the luxury of a hotel.
Here's hoping the Memorial Day campground is relatively raccoon-free. I think enough time has passed that I'm willing to give it another try. I'm looking forward to maybe some swimming, some spirited conversation, and maybe even a little sun on my nose. Plus, I think the contrast with New York will be a welcome one for a while. Raccoons may be the rats of the forest, but at least... they're not rats.
Today was day 4,392 of Operation JOB (am I feeling put-upon yet?). OK, it was really only Day 10 of my gym push. Although eventually I will probably go just three or four times a week, I'm really trying to make it part of my routine so that I'll miss it when I don't go.
I continue to surprise myself. I would have thought I'd hate this, but I'm really starting to like it (although my arms feel like limp spaghetti right now). It feels good to be more aware of my body, how its organs and muscles work together. And I'd love to know from any exercise physiologists if there's any link between endorphins and dreamlife, because my dreams lately have been wicked vivid and fun (meow!).
Although some of my old obsessiveness is creeping in around the edges, I'm trying to make myself be patient, while using some of the pent-up frustration for motivation. It will be easier when I start to see more tangible results.
Of course I take my little MP3 player with me, partly because it's obviously easier to work out to music, and partly to drown out the horrific house music they play (I think this is what house music is). But anyway, while I thought some of my more beat-heavy hip-hop stuff would get me going, I'm finding that the angry, punk-rockier tracks work best. Most effective songs in the playlist so far:
"The Way I Walk" - Jack Scott (for warmup)
"Bury Me With It" - Modest Mouse (this is far and away the biggest motivator so far)
"I Thought You Were My Boyfriend" - Magnetic Fields
Incidentally, this track is particularly fun because I'm convinced it's Merritt's attempt to write a club song. If you remix it with a heavier bass line on it, you've got a perfect gay club cult classic.
"Rid of Me" - PJ Harvey
When I heard this song this morning, I couldn't get images of the vile Department of Health commercials out of my head, as if Polly Jean is talking about getting rid of disgusting flab.
"Shake That Thing" - Hasil Adkins
"Kiss Off" - Violent Femmes
This is really all I can say on the subject at this point. I know my one remaining reader wants me to go into gory details, but I just can't do it here. Exhibitionist man, exhibitionist man. Exhibitionist man hates repression man. They have a fight, repression wins. Repression man.
Hometown Note
Yesterday, I saw this New Yorkish story about Roanoke that all you 'Nokers will appreciate. According to New Yorkish:
How do you get people in a small Southern city interested in the performing arts? You do what a ballet company in Roanoke, Virginia did and develop NASCAR ballet, a show where "modern dancers (who represent cars) circle a forty foot horseshoe track that banks around the corner complete with break away railings." And how do you fund such an unusual project? You follow NASCAR's lead, of course: "As the dancers gracefully careen around the track, collide and are rebuilt, logos of sponsoring companies are displayed prominently all over their bodies."
The Roanoke Ballet Theater describes it as:
An all original exploration into the pop-culture that is NASCAR, performed by dancers, musicians, videographers, live calling by Mike Stevens of Channel 7 and NASCAR drivers, Ward Burton, Frank Kimmel and Rick Mast.
This really says it all, doesn't it?
I do apologize for my lack of posts of late (those poor shoes just hanging out there, looking so sassy yet forlorn). On top of having been extremely busy at work, like I told a friend, I've been using up my mental energy trying to change myself, one of the hardest things for people to do. It's no wonder evolution happens relatively slowly -- humans aren't so good at making changes unless they're forced to.
I promise I will try to post something [good!] soon.
How about an in-depth review of vibrators?
"That's all you got, bitch?"
*Grumble*
*Double-grumble*
"Honey, do we have any more batteries?"
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Already?
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
[whispered voice] "Go toward the light, Jennifer. Go toward the light!"
Dare I say- a butt plug expose?
You know, that magnetic fields song sucks...
No, it doesn't.
I hate musicals, they suck too....Ha!
Nu-uh!
We want Kenny! We want Kenny!
You got him!
(Ok, I am aware of how lame this is. Just not feeling too inspired, as I'm expending all my mental energy in trying to transform myself into a gym rat. I promise I will try to provide you with more juicy and entertaining tidbits soon.)
I'm sick of myself, assume you are too.
Plus, work.
Maybe something later.
In honor of the month that's just begun, I thought I'd post the lyrics to a song from Camelot that I think of every year at this time. A little backstory may be in order.
When I was a kid, my sister and I put on many shows for the family, one of which was an elaborate annual Christmas program that we started planning as early as September. The programs included short plays, comedy sketches, sometimes a little standup, and much music, which always played a huge part in my family (incidentally, one good thing I can say about being brought up in the church). In short, these were a Little Ham's Paradise.
As the older sister and an early perfectionist, I was a cruel taskmaster. To this day, my mother keeps as a cherished possession a cassette tape of the eight-year-old me huffing that my barely five-year-old sister Kim (audible chattering in the background as proof of her tender age) was being "stubborn," refusing to learn her lines. As I recall, this was a rather lengthy play in which Kim, playing the small child character, necessarily had to star. As this cassette proves, my ambitions for our myriad productions often far outpaced the capabilities of my casts.
When we lived in Tennessee, the family went to see a production of Camelot in Nashville, and the young Jennifer was entranced by the heartbreaking story and the rich costumes, but especially the music. I was also particularly partial to our copy of the
I decided that I would produce the Camelot to end all Camelots. From "I Wonder What the King Is Doing Tonight" ("He's scared! He shakes! He quails! He quakes!") to "I Loved You Once In Silence," no number went unplanned. I imagined the grand costumes I, my sister, and the drawling Tennesseean neighbor children would wear as we belted "Fie on Goodness! Fie!"
But of all the fine songs in Camelot, "The Lusty Month of May" held out the most promise. I imagined turning the rusty backyard basketball net as a makeshift maypole, with only the most cherubic neighbor children winding around it as I sang. I practiced intoning exactly like Julie Andrews.
Alas, my months of meticulous planning soon fell by the wayside as the family became preoccupied with a move back to Virginia. Although Kim and I still performed our annual Christmas program until an embarrassingly advanced age, I never did produce the neighborhood Camelot of my dreams.
After revisiting Camelot years later, I noticed its very mature themes that I had missed as a child. How hilarious it would have been to my parents if the prepubescent Jennifer had sung, in perfectly-rounded Julie Andrews "O" tones:
Tra la, it's May, the lusty Month of May
That lovely month when everyone goes blissfully astray
Tra la, it's here, that shocking time of year,
when tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear.It's May, It's May, that gorgeous holiday,
when every maiden prays that her lad will be a cad
It's mad, it's gay, alive, a lust display,
Those dreary vows that everyone takes, everyone breaks,
everyone makes divine mistakes
The Lusty Month of MayWhence this fragrance wafting through the air?
What sweet feelings does it's scent transmute?
Whence this perfume floating everywhere?
Don't you know, it's that dear forbidden fruit.It's May, the lusty month of May,
That darling month when everyone throws self-control away.
It's time to do a wretched thing or two,
and try to make each precious day one you'll always rue.It's May, it's May, the month of "Yes, you may."
The time for every frivolous whim, proper or im-
It's wild, it's gay, depraved in every way,
The birds and bees with all of their vast amorous past,
gaze at the human race aghast
The Lusty Month of May.Tra la, it's May, the lusty Month of May
That lovely month when everyone goes blissfully astray
Tra la, it's here, that shocking time of year,
when tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear.It's May, it's may, the month of great dismay,
when all the world is brimming with fun, wholesome or un-
It's mad, it's gay, alive a lust display,
Those dreary vows that everyone takes, everyone breaks, everyone makes divine mistakes
The Lusty Month of May
Hmm....
Now that I think of it, I bet I could get H.J. to play the King, right? And perhaps Em, in a genius example of cross-casting, could play Lancelot? It's all coming together.
Last month I found this hilarious and sociologically revealing site [via the ubiquitous Choire] about this guy who once titled a blog post "Internet Messenger Question Answerer" with his IM address and subsquently received a barrage of IMs asking random questions. I know sometimes links in blog posts are throwaway, but check this one out. Here's a teaser:
Colombiangel1213: i need ur help again
*** Auto-response sent to Colombiangel1213: I am currently away from the computer.
sylloge: ok
sylloge: what's up?
Colombiangel1213: k i need to get info about whre in colombia are the tallest peaks and where are they
sylloge: Are you from Colombia?
Colombiangel1213: yup
This got me thinking....
I've always loved the finer points of grammar. Many of my friends, family, and co-workers contact me by email, IM, and phone to find quick (and sometimes annoyingly thorough) answers to grammar questions. I know the words to the Schoolhouse Rock grammar songs. I will gladly discuss the subjunctive mood over a cup of tea. I gots the grammar cred, yo.
What would happen if I created a grammar-related IM screen name and pronounced myself to Google and the world as the foremost internet messaging authority on grammar?
Probably nothing, but I'm half-hoping, half-fearing it will have the same result as dear sylloge's blog post. Armed with a stack of reference books (should I find myself out of my grammatical depth), I am preparing myself for the awesome responsibility this may entail.
So, here it is, friends and search engine crawlers:
My Internet Messaging screen name for grammar help is grammarshack. Grammarshack is your one-stop IM shop for all your grammar needs. IM name grammarshack. AIM. Grammar advice. Grammar help. Grammer advice. Grammer help. Writing help. Help me with grammar. Help me with grammer. Kelsey Grammer needs grammar help. Extreme fun with grammar. Grammar porn. Grammar with big tits. Britney Spears has poor grammar.
Do your worst, students and citizens of the free world.
