Friday, February 28, 2003

Dead. Mr. Rodgers -- who put on one shoe at a time, and succeeded -- is dead. His show wasn't all psychedelic-bullshit children's television of bright animals and loud, counting puppets. He didn't make you jump up and down; have you touch your knees, touch your toes; or make you make an exhausted fool of yourself. He had a sunken living room, a tasteful kitchen, and class. Fred Rodgers taught kids the delicate, subtle art of lifestyle, and for that I'm ever grateful.

Tomorrow, in memoriam, I think I'll sport a cardigan or a pair of soft, brown shoes. Maybe not, though, because that sounds kind of ugly. Sigh.


Tuesday, February 25, 2003

Not much to write about at the moment. Have a job, with a desk, with a view of a luminous, bluish inlet, so why the fuck should I be forced to do anything extracurricular. Life is good.

Oh wait, there is one thing: my checking account is in the negative. Uh, yeah. I mean, like -- yeah. And just how in the name of fuck did that happen? The last time this snafu occurred, I was in college writing checks. To myself. As it turns out, though, it was a mistake on various ends, a mistake I'm going to spend most of tomorrow rectifying. Still, it thrilled me a wee bit; making me feel so young, so naďve to the world around me, so carefree and ignorant. Very refreshing. So, the next time you notice a few more toes added to those crow's feet, might I suggest going into the red?


I think what I appreciate most in others, aside from parallel aesthetics, is a true understanding of acceptance. Not Acceptance as in, 'I accept and love everyone! Black, white, orange, green -- makes no difference to me!' I adore pure acceptance as in, 'He's going to be late. He always is. No big,' or 'It's a dinner party and she's downed five painkillers and a shot of Belvedere. Deal.' or 'So he listens to KOIT. And?' It's a rare embracing of one's lifestyle I find less and less of these days. But so long as someone has a heart, stone or otherwise, little else matters.

Wow, that was one assly formed paragraph, kids. But it was written on three different opiates and two of 7-Eleven's shameless Krispy-Kreme derivatives. Deal.


Friday, February 21, 2003

Apologies for the delay in getting back to you, my people. Whisked from one gala to the next, from chugging champagne at The Standard to mojitos at The Ivy, from dining with the cast of Chicago to waxing la lenguaje de cine with Pedro, I've had little time to write anything at all. At least anything you could comprehend. Alas.

Other than that, I've developed an even stronger, more paranoid aversion to public transportation, traveling to and from work. People rub their sphincters and open wounds up and down the grab rails, I just know it. Ugh. What's more, this has brought on a reckless, drying habit of washing my hands hourly. And the pink stuff just doesn't cut it; me needs me some good lava soap and a couple of Silkwood extras just to get me through the mornings.

Germs. Everywhere.


Friday, February 14, 2003

Come to my chest,
O ousted men of the ghetto!

Fine. Just accused of being unromantic and of containing intimacy-issues™ -- and partly inspired by Dawson's epic, naked trilogy on rejection -- I'm giving you two favorite fetishistic moments of bk romance. Aw. So, consider the following the cheap Valentine's Day card in your doily-decorated brown paper bag.

  • 17-years-young; driving home from Culver City, LA, in the morning, with lots of sunshine, with lots of hickeys covering my neck. It was delightful, awakening. Having spent the first night with my first much older (and looking back, much creepier) boyfriend, I speed down the 405 thinking of how I will recover the dirty turtleneck from the hamper to cover my globule-stained neck before parents or siblings take note. How cute. And although I now find hickeys, well, tacky, I secretly love receiving and having them. I know. I'm such a girl. Shut up.

  • Too early in the AM; the N-Judah train rolls past the window, hourly, at the apartment of a former jet-black-haired amour, who I had a thing for, who I stalked, who made me slack-jawed. Rumble, rubmle. It was the best sex ever. It was the best sleep ever. And I haven't done either as well since.


Yeah, I know, this is what single people do. Save it. It's my heart-shaped box for you!


Thursday, February 13, 2003

Tip 1: You know what really makes a dinner party that more special? Seating cards. Try it at your next gathering.

Tip 2: The best way to diffuse a hostile Algonquin-table-George-and-Martha-Boys-in-the-Band gay confrontation, which you might find yourself in after a few bottles of zin, is to say to said bitter gay, "And to think that I was really attracted to you at the beginning of the night. Huh." Really. It stuns and shuts them up with no fuss. I did it and went home with his business card and two of his chloroprene. Try it at your next gathering.

Hey! I'm reconnecting to the mobile world via a new cell phone and cell phone plan. And I can hardly wait until land lines are relics of the past, fossils of yesteryear. It's so exciting. I mean, everything is, in fact, coming up roses.


Wednesday, February 12, 2003

Well, this just sucks. Not one to make a political move, ever, I must boycott American Idol for its disqualification of the zaftig, zany Frenchy. The nerve. To pretend that the porn industry and the entertainment industry are mutually exclusive is, in a word, retarded. And I'm so sure that Fox, of all networks, is going to get moralistic on us. What mofos. But in the end I blame the Midwest, not Hollywood.

Also, Simon is a total objectivist, so I don't see why all the talent takes his criticism so personally. Oh wait -- because they're self-centered hysterics, that's why. Man, talent really bother me. As my dear, dear friend Ms. Shaw once said, "I don't date talent." And if there is sounder advice to follow, I have yet to hear it.


Tuesday, February 11, 2003

Sad news, kids. I found a job. Yeah. And the best part is that it came to me, rather than me to it. But it had to happen sooner or later, and I'm glad I spent little to no time sending out resumes and setting up interviews over the past five months. A close call on that one -- whew. So, sloth naysayers of the world, take note.

The adderall and maximum-strength benadryl are kicking in. Must make haste.


Friday, February 7, 2003

There was a film shoot in SOMA today, right on Folsom and Dore. And, like, why the hell wasn't I in it? I don't know what it was for (commercial for VW Bug? Porn? DeVry?) but where the fuck was my trailer and craft table? Where's my eggshell-walking, subservient attention?

At any rate, at least I have you.

Bean: She is sitting to the right of me, trying to knock over my Calistoga (a town in Napa, too -- where, by the way I vacationed during spring breaks for most of my years in university) Lime Essence Sparkling Mineral Water with her sharp, swaggy tail. Bean is very tiny, and it's not her fault, even though she is very bad.

Yeah, yeah. I think it's time to go out on a date, too. Soon.

Also, don't you find that friends who complain the most about money and personal finances are usually those sprung from wealthy backgrounds? "Wealth" being a subjective term -- but really now. I mean, I have nothing against people from money or nepotism (believe you me), but aren't trustafarians the first to tell you about how little they get paid, how to spend your money, how to feed the poor, etc.? That's a loaded question, but you get what I'm getting at. Get it?

But then again if I were a trustfund baby, you wouldn't find me putting out full-page ads out about it either. I do not need friends and family coming to me for cash the way they do now for locks of hair and aesthetic enlightenment.


Thursday, February 6, 2003

Starr Jones is an awful human being, period. She was rude and curt to Heidi Fleiss this morning, twisting her arm to get a prostitution proclaimation out of her; in fact, they all were mean to her. Those four bitches did everythig save dumping a bucket of pig's blood on her. And Starr Jones is, in three words, a postmenopausal cow.

OK. You're right. That was unfair. My own mother -- and many other mothers out there, too -- are postmenopausal, so I take that back. But that's it.


Wednesday, February 5, 2003

So much anger and fire coming my way, and I'm not sure as to how to deal. On two Ambients, though, it's easy to lose oneself. And lose it well. God bless.


Tuesday, February 4, 2003

American Idol is on again, and words fail me. It's such a good show. I can already feel the warm glowing of better reality television creeping my way, culminating in the summertime with BigBrother4.

Speaking of which, I'm still dumbfounded from seeing BigBrother3's Josh's X-rated photo spread in Playgirl. Shocked because (a) he did it and I now feel protective of the guy, the way I do with male straight-porn actors; and (b) because his penis wasn't the gargantuan tool I had imagined, or was told. On the live feeds he claimed it was big, and since he's Jewish, I believed him. Susie Bright once told me that most Jewish men have larger than your average cocks, hence the bulk of straight-porn actors are Jewish, thus my acute interest in all things oy. But now I'm not so sure. I mean, it wasnąt small, but it wasn't anything to let use and abuse you. Anyway, I sent her the Josh pics and am eagerly awaiting a reply.


Monday, February 3, 2003

Time again for some of the most offensive online sex ad headlines. This evening's entries are as follows:
  • eager bottom

  • how do i rub thee???

  • straight-acting

  • str8-acting

  • need to take a dump?

  • looking for LTR

That bit fell to pieces, didn't it. Jesus.

You know what's not as fun as it used to be? Unemployment. Which, by the way, isn't a cry for you, my legion of loyal readers, to nag me about it. You can save it. It's just that having little to no funds is fucking fatiguing. I mean, in a vacuum, I don't mind it; but explaining the situation, say, to a date or hypothetical boyfriend comes off as scummy: "Yo, do you mind buying this round again?" "Um, okay." See, not fun. I have a sticky film of slack on me at all times -- one that even Lava soap can't scrub off.


Unemployment breeds the occasional unrealistic expectation. For example, winning the lottery now seems both reasonable and tangible. While riding the elliptical at the gym, I'll tell myself, "Oh, I'll just win this week's jackpot. Perfect. Done." And you know what? I think if were to win the lottery, I wouldn't change that much insofar as quotidian life. Overall I would take more cabs and eat at Zuni for lunch, but that's about it. Oh, and matinees would be a thing of the past. Yeah. So, let's hear it for delusion! Let's hear it for the mirage in the distance! Let's hear it for slacker sticky film!