I'm so pretty!

The power of positive thinking

2009-12-28T07:23:00.000-08:00

This guest post is from one of my favorite bloggers. Please repost this on your blog and, more importantly, send out some love to a lady and a fella who have been paying forward all this time.

My name is brandy. And I have a blog.

And a plea.

I use my blog to showcase the crazy I meet everyday, share the stories of the kids I teach and document my love for tequila, dairy products and the abdominal muscles of Ryan Reynolds. Rarely do I talk about personal issues on my blog- as personal as the dude that I adore (who I actually met through my blog- single ladies, let that be a very good reason to blog, the possibility of meeting someone as wonderful as my man), but I need your help. And it involves my dude.

He’s a guy who made math comics for my class, so they would love learning about addition. He’s the kinda guy who sends my friends gift cards when they are having hard times, who remembers every story I ever told him, who was the first person I celebrated with when I got a teaching job. He’s the guy who sent flowers to me at school- dozens of my favourite pink roses just because he loves me. He’s a guy who has spent a year patiently explaining (and re-explaining) everything there is to know about football during the important games when silence is preferred. He’s made me word puzzles and comics and stayed up late playing Scrabble with me (even though I beat him almost every time). He’s listened to me cry about school and family and jobs. He is everything I never knew I needed and everything I always knew I wanted.

The holidays have hit us hard. He’s recently been told he may have something called multiple myeloma- an incurable cancer, that gives a person an average of five years of continued life. Though this news has came as a shock, he continues to be exactly who has always been- spending his time worrying about me, rather than worrying about himself. He’s the most selfless individual I know- (he stayed late on Christmas Eve to work, so his co-workers could leave early) and a post like this would never be something that he would promote or encourage but when I’m overwhelmed and feeling helpless, the blogging community has always given me tremendous support and comfort, two things I desperately need at this time.

As I write this, the future is uncertain and we aren’t sure what’s happening. He’ll need to see an oncologist soon, to verify what’s going on in his body. My hope is that everyone who reads this think positive thoughts and if you are a person who prays, could you add him to your list? (You can refer to him as ‘brandy’s hot awesome dude’). If you don’t pray, please keep him in your heart.This cancer is only a possibility and I believe that the prayers and positive thoughts of people can make sure it never becomes a reality.

I want to give a big thank you to the blog owner who scraped their original blog plans and graciously put this up. My goal is to get as many people as possible to see and read this post. If you are reading this and want to help, copy and paste my plea into your blog or send a link through twitter, so more people can keep him in their thoughts. I would be so very grateful (even more grateful than I am to my friend who first showed me the picture of Ryan Reynolds on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. If you haven’t seen it, google it. You. Are. Welcome).

I realize this all sounds dramatic, a Lifetime movie in the making- but this is life. Right now. And I’m throwing away any hint of ego and am humbly asking for you to pray or think kind thoughts. If you are able to pass this on, thank you and if you know anything regarding MM- please email me (my email is on my blog). This isn’t a call for sympathy or a plea for pity. It’s just one girl hoping you can think positive thoughts for the person she adores. If my current heartache provides you with anything, let it be with the reminder that life is short, love is unbending and no one knows what could happen next. Maybe it is silly, but I really do believe that positive thoughts can make a huge difference. Thank you for reading this and if you haven’t already? Please tell someone you love them today.

I did.

Misadventures in the kitchen, part 1,000,000,000

2009-10-29T11:52:00.000-07:00

So my weekend project was to break out ye olde crock pot and try out a curry butternut squash soup. Step one was washing out the crock pot, which has been in my basement since I moved in (my kitchen is roughly the size of a postage-stamp). Well, I forgot about the laundry detergent that mysteriously spilled on top of it many months ago (hi, I'm gross) and had since congealed, settling in the middle of the lid, which I'd placed upside down on top of the pot itself. In the intervening months, a small cave cricket unwittingly wandered into the mass of goo and died. Mmmm.

So I go upstairs, wincing all the way, and get to work, first setting the lid aside (too icky, not yet prepared) and tackle the easier task of cleaning out the crock pot itself, which only had a small amount in it. As detergent does, though, it was very sudsy and slick. And, I might add, smelled just delightful. (Truly! Tide Lavender, a lovely scent, even after months in a crock pot!) So I wash and wash and it's seeming to rinse a bit but not to my satisfaction. So I decide to get all 11th grade chemistry on its ass and decide to rinse with vinegar to cut the slick feel. All I have is balsamic vinegar. I use it anyway. It works! The pot is now squeaky clean. I rewash with dish soap to get off the vinegar and it is all set to go.

Now for the lid. I wipe out as much of the goo (cricket and all) as possible with paper towels. Then I set to work just as I did with the crock pot, being sure to use the balsamic vinegar followed with dish soap. Success. Or so I think. I look again at the lid (which is clear glass) and see that there are some suspicious bubbles lurking under the handle. Continued rinsing only leads to more slickness and the bubbles are still there, multiplying the longer I rinse. I get a screw driver to remove the handle so I can rinse things out proper. (Quite the handy homemaker, I think, patting myself on the back.) The screw, however, is made of pewter or something, so my screwdrivers (yep, I tried two different ones) only served to mangle the screw and loosen it not even one little bit. So I leave it alone, tell myself I'll deal with it later and commence to the peeling of the squash. (You may know the pain it is to peel a butternut squash.)

So, two squashes, two apples and an onion later, all peeled and chopped, all while sitting on the couch in front of the TV with a large cutting board and big bowl for scraps (again the kitchen, she is tiny). I prepare the broth and spices and pour it over the chopped goodness and, tired, put the lid on the top of the crock pot without so much as a perfunctory final rinse. It'll be fine, I tell myself.

At this point in the process--all contents in the crock pot set on cook, dishes done--I had completed watching "Will You Kill for Me?: Charles Manson and the Manson Family" and was powerless to stop watching "Jonestown Revealed" which began right after the macabre Manson special (I joked to myself: What's on after this? Waco? And it was!). Anyway, cults are fascinating from the safety of your living room, aren't they? Or are remnants of laundry detergent slowly being released from the lid's condensation, leaching into your curry butternut squash soup as you watch 909 Jonestown residents being forced to drink laced Kool Aid? Are you your own Jim Jones, brought down by stupidity rather than mania? I couldn't help but wonder. Then I brushed it off, I was just tired. Things get a little doomsday when I am tired and watching horrific things on television.

I awoke early to turn off the crock pot, the contents now softened and simmering on low. I mashed up the squash and apples and decide to have a morning mug. Not bad. The first sip is okay as is the second. By the third sip, the nutmeg and cloves have made themselves known by being delicious also making your mouth kinda numb they way they do. Yum! I have yet to blend the soup, though, so it's not an even puree. (I thought using a blender at 6 am would be uncool.) So, though a little chunky in a way that doesn't work for any soup involving squash, the flavor is, I believe, pretty good.

But, on the metro, I start to feel a little weird. Not bad, per se, but just kind of cleaned out from throat to stomach, oddly sanitized. You know, like detergent does. Yipes! I remind myself that I am still very, very tired (up late cooking and up early eating) and that Jonestown really was a very scary thing to watch, particularly after Manson, and maybe I am carried away? Should I eat something else? Should I NOT eat something else, lest the poison use the new food to be more absorbed in my system??* But I should calm down. I am just carried away, all caught up in tiredness and cults, right?

Right, according to Nancy, the friendly woman at the Poison Control Center who assured me that I was probably just fine. That, unless I had some real, immediate symptoms including an incredibly painful throat and inability to swallow, then I should have nothing to worry about and can continue to enjoy the batch of soup. I was nonplussed. She kindly offered, "You could have something else, though. Maybe a bug?"

I doubt she meant the cave cricket.

[Props to this lovely gal for the recipe.]

*a rudimentary understanding of science truly is worse than no understanding at all

Our salve (salvation?)

2008-11-05T06:27:00.000-08:00

I had a headache yesterday from about 5 pm until I went to sleep after 1 am. I couldn't do a thing at work--aside from look at cnn.com hoping vainly for updates that were far too early to come. That and listen to Yes We Can over and over again. And talk to coworkers about the evening's probable, hopeful outcome.

But here's the thing: I was in a great mood. I was excited until I was tired. For weeks I'd imagined how the evening would play out: with (oh please oh please) a victory giving way to me finally allowing myself to acknowledge the too-good-to-be-true happiness that had been welling up with each promising poll. And imagining that happiness, that this is too good to be true but it is nonetheless. And my shoulders would relax and I would stop holding my breath.

It turns out, though, that watching the win was a slow, hard-earned process. Was Virginia going to disappoint, were the polls wrong? ALL the polls? And so we watched and waited and my shoulders were up by my ears and my head felt fuzzy and pounded. California came not as a surprise but a relief all the same. And a leap toward 270. And then we got it. And Virginia was the one to put us over the top. Our henceforth purple Commonwealth. God bless.

And my head was still fuzzy and instead of the cathartic weight being lifted, pulling the smile from ear to ear, the much anticipated wash of relief didn't come. Another weight, the weight of transformational reality settled around, trying to get into my head, my heart. And as we watched Lewis and Jackson the tears found their way out and the truth sort of got in, but it's still not in, not all the way.

But I don't mind. I look forward to the full realization. Because, guess what, people? This news is good. I kept thinking last night about other galvanizing events, things that brought people out of their homes and caused them to share raw emotion and the list of events was bad, bad, bad. Watching our first African-American US President last night, welcoming our first Black First Family, what crossed my mind is our nation is sharing this historic event. We are participants and witnesses, not victims. Because this: our coming-together was not to share a tragedy. This was not a terrorist attack, this was not a natural disaster that pulled a city from our map, this was not some crazy killer staining Blacksburg and taking all those innocent kids' lives. No. This, this event that had us all tuned in, all watching was happy and positive and good. Truly good.

And maybe realizations like that don't come like simple happiness, a perfunctory drop of the shoulders. They come through a slideshow of what we've seen and what we see may be different. It comes as promise. It comes as a salve.

He did not say, "If you're not with us, you're against us." He said, "I'm your president, too."

And all I kept thinking was it's such a shame this good news isn't good for everyone. I hope and believe that, in time, for most people, it will be. Because he's our president. The whole country's. And we all have a lot of work to do.

Feeling much love, much humility and indeed much gratitude.

Love to all,
Star

I voted! I voted!

2008-11-04T09:07:00.000-08:00

Armed with my (California) driver's license, voter registration form, voter registration card, mail to my current (sister's) address in Virginia from the following: bank, credit card company, health insurance, pay stub from VA employer and retirement account company. I was DETERMINED to get to vote.

Armed with my wad of I-live-and-pay-taxes-in-this-commonwealth evidence, I stepped up to the booth. She was like, "Your voter card alone is sufficient." "Oh, okay, here you go," fumbling to remove the card from its envelope and purse in one hand, wad in the other, with my new voter permit pass in between two fingers I was directed around the check in station into the actual voting room. Nary a line to be found. The beauty of showing up at 9:45.

It was very exciting choosing Obama-Biden, and Warner and Moran. And voting to maintain our parks. And getting the sticker. And the free cup of coffee from Starbucks because of the sticker.

I love that we can choose our leaders. Especially when the leaders I choose become the leaders. Yes We Can!

I'll be doing cheerleading jumps in my office if any of you need me.

Hope you're voting is as easy and fun.

Kisses,
Star

Please vote

2008-10-02T08:29:00.000-07:00

The voter site that always reminds me of those old Madonna PSAs

Obama's Voter Registration Site

Virginia State Board of Elections

NOTE: You CANNOT fully register online in Virginia (I just learned this painfully near the deadline), so if you think you have time, you don't. You have to MAIL in your reg form with proof of residence and they have to receive it (postmark?) by Monday (THIS Monday).

Do it, people.

Kisses,
Now-in-Virginia-Details-to-Come Starpower

Funny girl

2008-08-25T15:53:00.000-07:00

Suie's older daughter, the two year old, wanted yellow underwear. It occurred to Suie: Do they make girl's underwear in yellow? Because all I've seen is pink, purple and Dora.

Some people are soooo into themselves

2008-05-09T11:56:00.000-07:00

Being a Friday afternoon and just now enjoying delicious leftover fried sampler goodies from IHOP, I find it necessary to let you know about my positive effect on those around me. Not only are they enjoying the new shade o'brown my lips have been sporting, the green and brown shadow combo on my eyelids has been a bit of a hit as well. Add my new silver hoop earrings and I am a vision. A vision, I say.

Going through security this morning (everyone with the most top secret clearances like Secret Agent Starpower here must), I placed a box of my belongings on the belt to go through the x-ray machine, noticed the box tipped over as it went in, and proceeded to catwalk-walk through the metal detector. Alarms did not go off. But the security lady did, "Who puts water in something electric?!" Seeing liquid dripping on my things I conceded, "Sorry, I forgot that was in there. There wasn't much."

I did in fact forget that I had a mug with about .00005 ml of water in it for the jade samplings I have been trying to get to root. Oops. She continued, "WHO PUTS WATER IN SOMETHING ELECTRIC?! SOMEONE PUT WATER IN SOMETHING ELECTRIC. OH MY GOSH, WHAT A MESS..."

I didn't hear the rest. I gathered my belongings and sauntered away, wondering what all the fuss was about. Maybe she's the one with PMS around here.

A question about my menses

2008-05-08T11:30:00.000-07:00

So is ten days before your period still in the window to call it PMS? It is, right? Because that's why, at 11:30 am--a totally respectable time for lunch--I opted for Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and that gummy delight, Dots, in addition to a large decaf flooded with fake creamer. I am eschewing a lunch invitation in favor of staying here and loading up on sugar and fake.

What gives? It must be PMS. I also feel really bitchy, if that helps convince you. It doesn't? No? You want a piece o'this? (And by this, I DON'T mean my candy. STAY AWAY FROM MY CANDY!)

Grrr. Here's hoping this is me for the next ten days.

In brighter news, I have been wearing a brown lipstick lately that has been meeting rave reviews--not all from the mirror, either.

Also, I went to a new yoga place last night and ended up doing not 90 minutes of asanas, but 90 minutes of chanting in Sanskrit. I'm not sure, but I think I am a Hare Krishna follower now. Maybe it's like "Beetlejuice" and the number of times I say the name determines something significant. If so, I either am guaranteed to end up in Nirvana or Hare Krishna will not be heard from for quite some time. If it's the latter, apologies.

Off to eat more and glare at passers-by.

Kisses (or at least not punches),
Starsour

You Better Get to Livin'...

2008-04-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

...like Dolly Parton (aka DOLLY! PARTON!) and me will be on August 3rd at the Greek Theater.

She is, obviously, the main act, but I will making a bit of a cameo on the back stage at the top back of the ampitheater. My act? Singing along and crying tears of joy and yelling my love for our greatest living singer. It will be a sight--especially if I get my new boobs by then.

Small and perky is nice and all but I think I'm ready for some real floatation devices and back pain. Huzzah!

Confessional

2008-04-18T13:58:00.000-07:00

I love my life here in Los Angeles. I have great friends, great weather, great roommate, great job, the most fabulous little pickles ever and access to the world's greatest yoga teachers. It's... great. What's not great is geography. It's soooooo far from my family and sitting here doing nothing (but dating many many Peter Pans (yes, there is more than one! But they all live in LA...)) is not making me famous for anything. No one's even offered to be my agent. Gah.

I'll be here for some more time, I know (so put away your hopes for now, family), but talking to a friend in VA earlier today made me miss my old home a lot. I mean, I miss home every time I talk to my family, especially Miss Avery's phone gurgles, but talking to a friend I haven't actually spoken to for some years now brought back a rush of memories. Memories I'd like to still be making.

And yet.

Every morning I step into flip flops and open the door to beautiful dog-walking weather. I have a book club with my smart, funny, socially-aware-but-not-self-righteous friends. I volunteer with teens I love every other Friday. I have different areas of my life (personal, spiritual, professional) where I know different people and sometimes cross paths with them in other areas of my life.

In short, my life is here, in California.

I have moved plenty of times in my life. But--Angola and Olympia, WA (two month stints apiece) aside--this is the furthest I have gone and already the second longest-time I have lived anywhere since high school. I have lived here more than two times longer than I lived in New York and almost as long as I spent in beloved beloved Blacksburg. The arithmetic of it all must be fascinating for you and I know it's tidbits such as this that keep you coming back for more and more.

But it is stuff I think about, some weak quanitification of the meaning of place.

Perhaps it's age, but I can't just up and relocate the life on a whim. I used to. I remember looking out at the George Washington Bridge spanning the Hudson one late Fall late night in 1999 and deciding that I'd trade NYC for DC and family and relationship. That January I moved as flippantly decided...and spent three years painfully missing New York.

I was happy for the closer proximity to family to be sure (and the relationship) but I missed another true love, New York, and felt more at home there every time I went to visit than I did in the city I actually lived. Would that happen to me if I left here? Would I look down at every 95 and humid day or out at snowy streets with a sense of dread and long for 68 and sunny? Would I do this everyday? Because I have tried skipping the dog walking duties a day here and there and the dizzles just aren't down with holding it that long. Wussies.

But am I down with growing deeper roots in a city all the way at the other side of this very large country from my family and many of my friends? (Insert Carrie Bradshaw voice...) I couldn't help but wonder, when it comes to moving and love, which moves you more?

Well?

Talk to me, folks. Starpower needs a guiding light.

Starpower home.

2008-03-10T12:24:00.000-07:00

There really is a place for a gal like me. Sigh. Will report next week on how the Cousin Lovers and other acts were. And the barbeque, provided it's chickens.

Men are better! Women are stupid! Just ask her...

2008-03-05T14:06:00.000-08:00

As a woman who is also a feminist--and believe you me these two things are not one in the same--I am getting pretty angry (get it? angry feminist?), anyway, I am actually getting weary of women writing articles that are patently anti-woman.

This article calls us silly, stupid, inferior, and like children in bigger bodies.

Where on Earth did this attack come from? What prompted this woman to write this "we suck, here's why" nonsense? Are some of us that freaked out that one of us may actually become the next President? A snippet: Women's foolishness is usually harmless. But it can be so . . . embarrassing. Take Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton's campaign.

Wow. I'm all Barack, all the time, but if he were to not pull off the nomination, I'd be perfectly happy for Hillary to be our nominee. I went to a rally for her and left feeling more confident that she'd work for Americans' best interests and not only fulfilling her own aspirations (even if she and Bill remind me a bit too much of these two and their win! win! win! no matter what! attitudes). All the same, to call Senator Clinton's campaign foolish or embarassing based on the fact that she's a woman is disrespectful (not to mention sexist). To do so in an article about how dumb all women are and using a presidential candidate as a prime example is just wrong.

To call women as a whole a bunch of stupid, silly people while citing men's superiority in feats such as driving cars and not watching Oprah is something that a woman being published should be allowed to do. Because a woman should be entitled to express her malformed opinions based on ridiculously selective evidence and randomly-attached thoughts just like a any man should. For Ann Coulter, a Bill O'Reilly. It's all ignorance.

But what's this Charlotte Allen so bunged up about? Why the anti-woman? She mocks women's support of Obama as well, so it's not simply an anti-Clinton piece. I'm sure of the message: we're semi-useless outside of the home, I get it, but I'm not sure about the motivation. This Q & A with her does little to clarify, beyond saying it was all just for fun.

What's more baffling is that it's in The Washington Post, a publication I thought was above gratuitous pot-stirring.

I don't get it. I'm dumb. I better go bake cookies.

Color me busted...

2008-02-19T12:11:00.000-08:00

...but you probably are too.

From Mos Def to recycling to standing still at concerts to expensive sandwiches, I am indeed very, very white.

Music is my favorite waitress

2008-01-23T16:22:00.000-08:00

Happy 2008!

This year, I resolve to be more present. Not present here necessarily in that I may not post more often, but I'll try. What I will continue to do, however, is to never burden this here joint with blah blah about why I haven't blogged nor will I remark that, gee, it's been a while since I've written here...

Why? Because that's irritating. Just blog. Gah.

And with that:

Starpower here would like to update on some fab new music recently acquired, some even obtained the old-fashioned go-to-the-store-and-pay-money-for-a-physical-CD way:

Who: Bob Dylan, Live 1964

Why: Well, aside from speaking for itself why, it has the song "If You Gotta Go Go Now (Or Else You Gotta Stay All Night)" which I have never heard Bob Dylan sing. Only this guy Joe from college with acoustic guitar. In fact I oft-requested of Joe to play that particular tune, not because I wanted him to serenade me with that particular sentiment (though it is super sweet. I mean, swooooooon), but it's just a great song and the lighter side of gettin some isn't celebrated often enough.

Anyway, over the years, I have tried to find this song on any of Dylan's records and, short of applying myself and looking in iTunes (which I may even have done), have always come up short. The closest I got was once in 1995 when I was in someone's apartment who had Dylan's box set. Sure enough, the song was on there. I rejoiced. And then found every other disc in the set but the one containing the song. Then I felt stymied. Until now.

Results: Fantastic. Double disc of some heavy lyrics but often surprisingly silly chatter from Bob Dylan, 23. Some accompaniment by a lady folkie who was also a big deal at the time but I won't mention her b/c I don't want to ruin the surprise. I will say that it's not Joni Mitchell. And that Joni's better. But, anyway, super great buy. I recommend it, esp if you can listen in close range to the volume control on account of that harmonica gets really f'ing loud. Stupid acoustics of the stupid venue. Nonetheless, it kicks ass and should be bought and enjoyed by all of you. It's Dylan. Respect.

Buyer's Remorse?: Hells no.

Who: Kris Kristofferson's Best Hits (or something)

Why: $7 at Best Buy whilst Christmas shopping, presumably for others.

Results: Much like paying $7 for Me & Bobby McGee on iTunes since there's not too much on there that's awesome otherwise. But a song about a hangover and street corner and, I think, rain. Anyway, he's got a manly voice and M&BM is really fantastic and the other songs, through road trips and a love of slowish, folkish country, are probably tunes I can grow to love.

Buyer's Remorse?: Buyer feels more like she could have lived without adding to the silly/ironic portion of her collection, but also feels like $7 is a pretty fab bargain. In short, time will tell.

Who: Gym Class Heroes

Why: On a compilation from a friend. I told her I really dug the songs. She burned me their album Cruel As...

Results: Slight disappointment that they're the ones who sing that tune with the Supertramp track in the background, but otherwise super dig it. Even the Supertramp-y one would be good if it didn't fully contradict itself--a thing a detail/consistency-monger like myself has little patience for. Type A Communication Style aside, great CD. Besides who doesn't feel a little bit cooler listening to hip hop? Even if it is hip hop made safe for alterna-types.

Buyer's Remorse?: Totally. I hate free kick-ass music. Ugh.

Who: Say Hi (aka?/formerly? Say Hi (To Your Mom))

Why: Because they were so good live.

Results: Finally listening to it after seeing them so many months ago. As in, removed the packaging to lend to my Gym Class Heroes-burning friend. We met up last night, I got the music back I'd lent her and am now checking it out and still loving it very much. More grown-up and ambient than you'd expect from such a snarky band name. Layered and musical and vocals just a teensy bit beneath the music. A great voice all the same. The album is called The Wishes and the Glitch and track 6 (Magic Beans and Truth Machines) is especially catchy. Check it out.

Buyer's Remorse?: No, particularly because I think Anila gave me the $10 at the show to buy it. Which reminds me, I owe her $10. Bummer.

Who: The Velvet Teen

Why: Because I was so psycho in love with their song The Prize Fighter off one of two fantastically great compilations an old intern made for me. (Said compilation was the seed for many many purchases.)

Results: Went to Amoeba, bought three of their CDs (two LPs, one EP), liked them a teensy bit less than The Prize Fighter which is simpler musically than a lot of their other stuff I got. Nonetheless, went to see them live and really wanted to love them. Saw Say Hi there and ended up loving them instead. It's all a journey, people. A long wondrous journey.

Buyer's Remorse?: Eh, not really. The beauty of used music is it's cheap. They deserve more of a listen, all of these Velvet Teens. When my heart's a little more open to their songs sounding less like that one song. Still, if I could recommend an iTune The Prize Fighter would be it.

Who: Stars

Why: Great songs: Celebration Guns, Tonight and Your Ex-Lover is Dead, all three from Intern Extraordinaire

Results: Made a fortuitous purchasing error, which led to me buying not Stars song sung by Stars, but Stars songs sung by Stars friends. Record name, aptly: Do You Trust Your Friends? And, indeed, they were right to. Really great stuff on there and a whole slew of new bands to check out.

Buyer's Remorse?: Nyet.

Other bands from Intern Extraodinaire (and the songs that made me love them). In alphabetical order, because I'm fancy and you're worth it:

American Football (sadly defunct, after one album) - I'll See When We're Both Not So Emotional (big big ups to this one)

Athlete - Chances, Forest Fire (newest album is great, which these may not be on)

Bloc Party (which I've avoided on account of hating the name) - Waiting for the 7:18

Minus the Bear - Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Wherehouse (still need to look into them more)

BEST RANDOM FIND AWARD

This is a special category (versus the others, which are uncategorized) reserved for the daring sound-unheard purchase. This one goes to Blue Mountain, used from Amoeba and sounds like Wilco's kick ass uncle who got the sound down before Wilco's other uncle, Uncle Tupelo, took all the credit and then gave way to Wilco. Can't recall the name of the record but the pic is of a front porch of a more-country-than-Britney-country farmhouse with people in flannels and a big black dog. Which, now that I think of it, may, in fact be the name of the album after all: Black Dog. Maybe? Anyway, do it, Doug. You won't regret it. Unless you hate guitar and cigarette-throaty crooning about whiskey and rain. But, come on, who don't love that?

It's a safe bet I'll blog about music at some point in the future. It's a safer bet that I love each and every one of you fine, fine folks. Awww.

Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies, Starpower-Style

2007-12-18T14:13:00.000-08:00

So my yearly kitchen experimentaion turned out marginally better than last year's foray. Maybe? You decide (you know, by reading, I wouldn't make you actually taste my creations)...

Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies (well, allegedly, anyway).

The very day you were probably enjoying High Tea with undoubtedly fantastic scones, I was in my kitchen trying to master the simple cookie. Being a non-baker, I had none of the ingredients so the adventure began at the store. I thought dark chocolate chips would be a fun antioxidant-enhanced treat so I planned to get those. That is, until I read the package and got scared off by their potentially less-meltable-than-semi-sweet nature. So I went with the organic semi-sweet instead. Excited by the "organic" I decided to go as organic as possible. So I did:

organic brown sugar
sugar in the raw
cage-free brown eggs
and, owing to a wheat gluten semi-intolerance, oat flour instead of all-purpose (I mean, they're oatmeal cookies, right? Why not go full-throttle, I figured. You know, really oat it up.)

Who needs rules, people? Who needs recipes? My cookies were going to be great. So I get home with all of my ostensibly socially-responsible groceries and set to work.

And then I realized I didn't have enough butter. Now the grocery store is all the way across the street from me. It was a cold day--mid-60s--windy and gray. Going all the way back to the store was clearly out of the question. Being ingenious, I decided to augment with oil. I was only about a tablespoon short of butter, so what's a little oil to help go the distance? I turned to my oil options and grabbed the Safflower. I noticed the bottle had, at best, about a 1/2 teaspoon in it. That would not do. So, I went with the other option: Olive.

Yep, olive oil. In cookies.

Cookies that flattened so much through baking that they all baked together, showing very very little pan underneath. It was one huge cookie STUCK to the pan (hint: do not believe the directions when they instruct you to not grease the pan).

While chiseling the first batch off of the pan (and oh there was so much dough still in the bowl for more batches), I was able to eat a bit of extremely crunchy "cookie."

The verdict?

Well, 'substantial' comes to mind. Not light and airy, these. A second term came to mind as I continued chewing (read: crunching): 'fried-like.' Yep, how one can bake something that's meant to be a dessert that comes out tasting more like a chocolate-infused fried entree is beyond me. Or, apparently, not at all beyond me.

It wasn't all for naught: after eating one of the more intact cookies just before yoga, I was stuffed.

Hmm, think I could pass these off as some new energy bar?

I should probably write more and link less. BUT...

2007-10-11T15:24:00.000-07:00

I find this awesomely hilarious and fantastically wonderful. What do you think? Please, I must know...

(Props to this guy for posting it.)

They were all "But you'll ruin our pretty diamond pattern!"

2007-09-17T18:16:00.000-07:00

So I just took one on my own. I'd like to point out that I look tanner ALL than those dudes.

But their make up is prettier. And their hair.

Those really are some pretty, pretty men.

And, let's face it, I know pretty.

Starpower hearts a slacker

2007-09-17T17:50:00.000-07:00

This may have been around forever, but I am in love with this streaming radio site. Check out the indie station. Or whatever you want. I don't give a care. But they do. They'll play you bands you like on request and then will play you bands like the bands you like. It's so very "If you like Giorgio, then you'll LOVE Secret Passions!" Except all the bands are legit and not weird generic made up bands. Unless you pick that station, then I guess it is. But no worries. No judgment. We're all friends here.

Arcade Fire just came on. I will be seeing them live this Thursday (woo-hoo!). And somehow, this site KNEW. Creepy. But really awesome creepy.

I'm glad we had this talk.

I always KNEW I was like The Dalai Lama

2007-08-23T18:16:00.000-07:00

This test is to politically-interesting awesomeness what I, apparently, am to zen-ness. That is: totally.

Props to the good folks there for pointing out that Stalin and Gandhi just weren't so dang different after all.

Or maybe that's me seeing the Oneness of everything.

Namaste, people.

Still drawing like an eight year old

2007-08-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

I am in a computer training this week. All week. It is closer to my house and the hours of the training each day are long enough that it counts as a full day but are still significantly shorter than my usual work day. Not too shabby.

What is a bit shabby is my performance in said training. We had to draw a house today, using line and diagonal line functions, circles, squares and polygons. I tried to make mine look very similar to the one in the example: one big window next to a doorknob-less front door of a brick house with a brown triangle roof. Pretty boring. And rudimentary--like South Park-style. Maybe they use the software we're learning?

Anyway, I tried to spice mine up with some nice patterns to 'texturize' my green bushes and gave my remarkably lollipop-like flowers varying colors to add some pizazz. But it didn't stop there, friends: I even added a great big sun in the upper right hand corner with big thick beams that shone down--nay, touched!--the roof of my little house.

Smug with my clever innovation, I looked around at my classmates' work. Their houses all had perfect flowers in front and cobblestone walkways and much much fancier architecture with stained glass windows and what I imagine would be stucco exteriors. Blue skies, distinct bushes versus my green blobs, prettier butterflies with incandescent wings flying around the homes.

So, it's official: I will not quit my day job.

Unless South Park calls.

Just real quick before I go vomit...

2007-08-07T12:35:00.000-07:00

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Contact: Sarah Clark, Wal-Mart
1-800-331-0085

Dr. John Agwunobi to join Wal-Mart as Senior Vice President and President for the Professional Services Division

BENTONVILLE, Ark., Tuesday, August 7, 2007 --Wal-Mart Stores, Inc. is pleased to announce that Dr. John Agwunobi, current Assistant Secretary for Health for the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services and an Admiral in the U.S. Public Health Service Commissioned Corps, has been named Senior Vice President and President for the Professional Services Division for Wal-Mart in the U.S. effective September 4.

Dr. Agwunobi will oversee the company's health and wellness business unit including pharmacies, vision centers and health care clinics. He is the country's expert on public health, and he will bring new perspective, diverse talents and tremendous expertise to our company in his new role.

He will report to Bill Simon, executive vice president and chief operating officer for Wal-Mart Stores U.S.

"John is the country's expert on public health, and I look forward to his contributions in furthering Wal-Mart's health and wellness efforts," said Simon. "He will bring new perspective, diverse talents and tremendous expertise to our company in his new role." Added Dr. Agwunobi, "Wal-Mart touches many lives in many communities and this position provides me with a new opportunity to reach people in the places where they live, work and shop. I am very excited to join the Wal-Mart team."

Dr. Agwunobi, also a pediatrician, is a seasoned public health professional with experience in health care delivery, managed care and health care policy. As Assistant Secretary for Health, he was responsible for disease prevention, health promotion, women and minority health efforts, the reduction of health disparities, the fight against HIV/AIDS, pandemic influenza planning and vaccine preventable disease initiatives.

Prior to his current position, Dr. Agwunobi served as Florida's Secretary of Health and State Health Officer from October 2001 to September 2005. In this role, he confronted many public health challenges, including leading the state's public health and medical response to four major hurricanes, led the call for a healthier Florida, managed the response to the nation's first-ever intentional anthrax attack, and guided Florida's nationally-recognized efforts to protect the state against bioterrorism.

Wal-Mart Stores, Inc. operates [the locations and contact information I don't feel the need to publish here].

###

Maybe this only seems scandalous to me, but the idea that someone whose career has ostensibly focused on improving the health of the public will now be working for one of the worst purveyors of screwing employees out of decent health (and many other) benefits is pretty atrocious.

One hopes that Agwunobi's new post will lead to better benefits for all involved--workers and patrons alike--but I can't help but suspect that it will only lead to better benefits for himself, paid for by a nakedly politically-motivated move by Wal-Mart.

I think separation of Church and State is a good thing.

I think separation of Corporation and State--at least more separation than we currently see--is even better.

Amp, revealed

2007-08-06T10:59:00.000-07:00

So, in the description of this baby, they forgot to mention that time I used it. Some of you may remember: It was that September night, back in '99, when I was touring a lot and doing lots of blow. My SF days. I ran into Blake on the corner, his guitar in hand, and he was all I'm about to go record some kick ass records, wanna come? And I was all, if you quit looking at me all lovey-like that (did I mention that I was his muse for Chesterfield King? Yeah.). He was all you're just so... [I glared] uh, nevermind, yeah, no more love eyes, come one let's go rock out! So I go to what I thought was their studio and bam! it was a new venue that I had somehow missed and it was filled with people all ready for Blake to go on stage. (He was always showing up late. The rest of the band would get so pissed off. (I know: lead singers.))

Anyway, a few songs in, Blake, that dick, was all "hey everyone, I have a special guest for you!" He nods at the lights guy and a huge spotlight shines right on me. Uh, like, if I wanted to be performing wouldn't I be doing it with my own band, Super Pretty Fairy Dust?! Good God this guy was too much. Sooo of course the crowd is like freaking out and of course I'm looking regular hot but not on-stage hot and there's Blake the whole time, smirking. It's enough that he fooled me into to going to YET ANOTHER one of their shows (like their crowds weren't big enough), but now I have to perform? Too much. And he wonders why the love eyes piss me off.

So, at the very insistent star(power)-struck crowd's cheering, I finally get up on stage, flick Blake off, wave at the other guys in the band, take Blake's guitar, turn up the amp proper and rock out. I did one of their songs, Sea Foam Green, in a totally rearranged way so it was all hard and fast and energetic yet longing. There was still haunted, throaty longing.

By the end of the song, I was glistening (and, as my scale confirmed later, had dropped two pounds (on account of the rocking out)). So, song over, I'm catching my breath, flciking my head to the side to get the wet hair off my forehead, take the guitar off, pass it back to dumbfounded Blake (he hadn't known I was working on that cover; I bet he thought I was going to play my band's smash hit, "Blake Loves Me" (that showboater) . So I give his guitar back, turn around and turn the amp back to their respectable levels and am about to leave the stage. I mean, it was only like 10 seconds, but it hit me: the entire audience is silent. I finally look up, kinda shrug and, as if that sparked one giant, collective snapping-out-of-it, they take their mouths off the ground, refocus their rock-dazed eyes and then start yelling and whistling and clapping like crazy. I have to admit, it was a rush. It's true: you just never get used to it. It's like the first time every time. Which is more than I can say about blow.

This guy needs some estrogen--stat

2007-07-18T09:54:00.000-07:00

From an article this morning:

[Michael] Vick reached a settlement last year with a woman who charged in a lawsuit that he had knowingly given her herpes. Last season, Vick was fined $10,000 by the NFL and agreed to donate another $10,000 to charity for making an obscene gesture toward fans while leaving the field after a game at the Georgia Dome in November.

The above paragraph proves he's kind of a dick. But he's the nice Vick, right?

Wrong:

According to the indictment, Vick decided in his rookie season of 2001, with Phillips and Taylor, to start a dogfighting operation. Vick, who grew up in Newport News, paid $34,000 in June 2001 for a property at 1915 Moonlight Rd. and, according to the indictment, "used this property as the main staging area for housing and training the pit bulls involved in the dogfighting venture and hosting dog fights."

The indictment said that in April 2007, Peace, Phillips and Vick "executed approximately eight dogs that did not perform well in 'testing' sessions by various methods, including hanging, drowning and/or slamming at least one dog's body to the ground." Vick also is alleged to have consulted with Peace before Peace killed a losing dog by electrocution in 2003.

This guy's monstrous. I don't like him.

Love that Ross Vegas

2007-06-28T18:15:00.000-07:00

It's an email chain, so, you know, read upside-down.

Enjoy.

From: Starpower
To: Ross Vegas
Subject: RE: Tomorrow is Don't Pump Gas Day
Date: Tue, 15 May 2007 10:46:29 -0700 (PDT)

Hiya!

I know these boycotts essentially mean nothing except a good laugh for the oil execs. It is an empty gesture, I realize, but when you have a full tank of gas and the ability to forward an email and a penchant for idealism particularly when it only demands extremely low-grade action, well, it got the better of me. But what do I know, I'm actually just as addicted to oil as the next guy.

-SP

***

From: Ross Vegas
To: Starpower
Subject: RE: Tomorrow is Don't Pump Gas Day
Date: Tue, 15 May 2007 10:46:29 -0700 (PDT)

Hey.

I hate the man as much as any other recycling, navy-shower taking guy (OK, I drive an SUV but I planted a bunch of trees to offset my carbon footprint. Kind of like lenny dicaprio did to offset his private jet). I also hate (in a totally conflicted way) that our entire way of life is founded on the availability of cheap energy. But... There was no price drop in April 1997. Plus, everyone is just going to fill their tank today or wait until the day after the boycott so the folks down at Exxon will get our cabbage one way or the other.

That's how they roll.

Except for the sucking sound that is the eternal damnation of their souls, it's a pretty good gig when you think about it. What we need is an "Everyone Bike to Work for the Rest of Their Lives Day" and "Everyone Only Buy Food That is Local Day...Forever" and "Hey Ethanol Really Kinda Sucks Day" etc. Until then. Ladies and gentlemen. Start your engines.

-Ross

***

From: Starpower
To: Starpower (including Ross Vegas on the BCC list (the proper way to email many folks. (just saying.)))
Subject: Tomorrow is Don't Pump Gas Day
Date: Mon, 14 May 2007 15:49:26 -0700 (PDT)

DON'T PUMP GAS ON MAY 15TH

In April 1997, there was a "gas out" conducted nationwide in protest of gas prices. Gasoline prices dropped 30 cents a gallon overnight. On May 15th 2007, all internet users are to not go to a gas station in protest of high gas prices. Gas is now over $3.00 a gallon in most places. There are 73,000,000+ American members currently on the internet network, and the average car takes about 30 to 50 dollars to fill up.If all users did not go to the pump on the 15th, it would take $2,292,000,000.00 (that's almost 3 BILLION) out of the pockets of big oil. So, don't buy gas on the 15th and lets try to put a dent in the oil industry for at least one day. If you agree, pass this on to all of your contact list.

I totally rinsed the carrot and the yogurt was unopened.

2007-05-08T14:21:00.000-07:00

(We've already broken the TMI seal, yes? Good. Read on.) So I have been feeling a bit, um, queasy the past few days. Not constantly, but intermittently. You know, you're working along fine and then you're all Oh-Dear-God-I'd-Best-Get-To-The-Bathroom-ASAP.

At times like this, one wonders what brought it all on. So I thought to myself, Starpower, Public Health Professional, do you think your stomach sadness is due to the farmer's market carrot you ate without peeling or the yogurt that was more than a week (okay, month) postdated?

It probably depends on the way you look at it: the side of the coin that says I'm disgusting or the other side of the coin that says I'm disgusting. Tough call.

Can I get a witness? (Please?)

2007-04-19T22:01:00.000-07:00

As the week's gone on, it's become clearer and clearer to me that this horrible event at VA Tech that I can hardly name more specifically is not a thing I'll get over very soon. On Monday, I was in shock; Tuesday a little sad; Wednesday choking-back-tears sad and today I was choking back tears for the half-day that I was at work until I bailed and cried on the drive home. Finally.

And I know now that I won't be over this for a while, maybe quite a while. Because what happened isn't just sad, it's horrifying. And though I'm sure that I haven't really figured it all--or any of it--out, I have figured out that this is a thing that I have to handle, to deal with, to heal from--all the while feeling self-indulgent and guilty for having such a strong reaction. You see, I haven't lived there since 1996.

But it was a very important part of my life. I lived there for four years and loved it and love it still and everyone I talk to who went there is feeling similarly wrecked and surprised at their own shatter. People can't stop crying, people can't talk about it, people can't stop talking about it, people can't get enough of the coverage, people can't wait til we're back to Britney.

And I'd give myself a harder time for taking it all so hard if I thought any part of my reaction were controllable. But it's not. I can't not feel this sad. I can't not be totally normal and laughing one second and on the verge of tears the next, the lump in my throat swelling for the millionth time in a day. I can't not veer from sad to livid and--so help me and I do feel bad--but I couldn't not flick off the guy in traffic today who honked at me for no reason. I was pissed.

I can't not not do laundry. I can't not not wash the dishes. I can't not not talk in too many negatives.

I can't do anything but as little as possible. I did, however, make it to yoga this evening. With the teacher's permission, I made an announcement after class asking people to consider wearing orange and maroon tomorrow and to join Tech alumni at the north side of the Santa Monica Pier tomorrow at 7 pm for a candlelight vigil. No reaction. From anyone.

Then my teacher made her announcement and chuckled to ask if anyone else had any announcements. She's one of my favorite yoga teachers and still, at that minute, I thought a little less of her. And might for awhile.

No one came up to me after class. I wasn't really announcing the vigil or our colors for attention for myself--it really was for all of us Hokies here in LA--but I suppose I was expecting and hoping for a little sympathy.

But this is Southern California and the people who live here live 3,000 miles away from my old home, Blacksburg. They don't get it, they aren't affected, and you can't fake not being affected. So I made the announcement and then we all left.

I couldn't not feel a little disappointed, a little isolated, and very very far from home.

Open letter to Cho Seung Hui

2007-04-18T18:27:00.000-07:00

Attention, Cho Seung Hui :

I think making fun of someone when you yourself feel insecure is repugnant. To KILL dozens of innocent people because of your own shit? That’s a whole different story.

You shamed yourself but I don’t really care about that.

I care that you shamed Blacksburg and that you shamed Virginia Tech. You shamed Virginia. You shamed South Korea and you shamed your home country, the US. Growing up watching Pearl Jam’s Jeremy video and news coverage of the shootings in Columbine just like all of your classmates, did you look at it all differently? Did you look with envy, with satisfaction, with resolve?

I understand why you did it: you’re crazy. That very rare kind of very dangerous crazy.

But here’s what I don’t understand:

How could you have lived so miserably for so long? I just don’t get it.

Maybe you didn’t have that thing that so many of us have—that thing that makes us work to extract unhappiness from our lives, or that other thing that makes us look to others for comfort and love and support. The world knows you didn’t have the latter for sure.

You were a loner.

Your roommate couldn’t pronounce your name. He and your suite mates thought the reason you didn’t talk much was because you couldn’t really speak English. They didn’t know that you moved here when you were eight years old, that you not only spoke English, but that your major was English.

Maybe you lacked lots of the things that most of us have and take for granted. Maybe you knew that and that’s why you were so pissed off: you just couldn’t get it right. No matter what you did you got it all wrong. Probably from very, very young. Not your fault, kid, you weren’t born with all the ingredients. But, guess what? Drug companies make ingredients—and have since you were very, very young.

There is, of course, the tragic possibility that no one tried to help you growing up—though I heard your parents were “super nice.” Even if you did have to grow up feeling isolated and lonely and angry and just plain different, your professors tried to help you once you got to Tech (as, I would bet many teachers did along the way). They begged you to go to counseling. Once, you were sent to a mental hospital: why why WHY did you not put down the pride (not missing that ingredient, to be sure) and just tell them what was going on? You don’t even have to be in touch with your feelings to say that you have no social support; no friends, no girlfriends, not even acquaintances. No buddies. Of all the times to have opened your mouth, that would have been the time. You really fucked that one up, pal.

Here’s what else you fucked up:

Nevermind.

We all know what you fucked up. But how long did you know you were going to do it? You were there for 3 ½ years; surrounded by happy, laughing, social people whose behavior must have, however unwittingly, so mocked your inability to similarly engage that all you had were fantasies and passive-aggressively violent plays for your classmates to have to read and shudder as they mumbled “it’s good” or “nice work” or other unspecific un-trespassing remarks to avoid freaking out the freaky guy who never talks.

Your beef wasn’t really with rich people. It was with people rich with all the ingredients that people are supposed to have. You got genetically short-changed big time but by killing innocent strangers did you really get even?

I can’t help it. I feel bad for you. You must have been in a lot of pain. A lifetime of pain. I wish I could feel less bad for you. I wish I could hate you and dismiss you as some soulless devil figure in one of the stories you wrote or may have written. I read your two plays that were posted online. Aside from melodrama and poorly-described scenes (where the hell was Mr Brownstone? Just standing there?), it was obvious that you were rabidly angry. Filled with unreasonable, unbridled anger. Yeah, sure, the world fucked you alright so you fucked it right back, is that it?

I’m more than an a little angry myself: at you. You killed innocent people, you fucked up my town, my college, their good names and the good feelings people had tied to them. The Hokies’ll win it back, I know (see Columbine wasn’t on the map before those kids came along, Virginia Tech was, nice try). I’m still pretty confused by all of this and, mostly, by my feelings about you and your telltale featureless face that could only belong to a mass murderer (could the media PLEASE stop showing it?). I wish it never happened (insultingly obvious comment, I know) and I wish I never knew of you.

I wish that, wherever you are, you have no idea about all of the attention you’re getting right now. You don’t deserve it. The ones who were killed do but, again, for insultingly obvious reasons, I wish I’d never heard of them, either.

Couldn’t you have killed just yourself? That way, we would have felt 100% unmitigated bad for you. Better, we never would have heard of you. And everyone else would be alive, in class, and answering their cell phones.

Sorry for your pain (truly), but fuck you for bringing so much of it for everyone else.

Signed,
Starpower

Alma Mater

2007-04-16T09:48:00.000-07:00

I went to college at a wonderful, beautiful, safe place. Now it's worse than Columbine.

At least 22 people were killed on campus--no, ON CAMPUS--this morning at Virginia Tech. I heard the first reports of it on NPR here in Southern California on my drive in to work. I called my sister who'd only heard what I had: one person shot in a dorm, another in an academic building. We recalled the shootings near campus just past August and felt bad for new students there, then got off the phone.

Still driving to work, she called back to update me: 24 were shot in various locations--all on campus--and the one dead, they believe, is the shooter.

At my office, while my computer was still booting up, she called again: 20 of those shot were dead. It's the main story on cnn.com (rightfully so) and the VT home page is announcing where parents can meet their college student children, that there will be a convocation tomorrow for the VT community to begin to deal with the tragedy and that counselors are on-hand for VT staff. The campus has closed today and all are asked to go home (during the rampage, students in classes huddled in the middle of the room, in lockdown, all students were told of the event via email and informed to 'stay away from windows.'

The campus will open again tomorrow at 8 am but all classes are cancelled. This is a good decision, of course, but:

Students want to the right to get drunk and be too hungover to go to to class; they want the freedom to skip a class. But, they want the class to happen. They just want to choose to go or not go. To know they have no choice but to stay in their dorm rooms, fresh with memories of avoiding the windows by their beds? To know that there's not a normal they can partake in even if they wanted?

No one wants that kind of freedom.

Why charming people should only live where I live

2007-03-01T10:18:00.000-08:00

Allow me to discourage you from talking to anyone when you're travelling. Even if you're with your friends in New York City in a bar. Even if you feel like flirting. Even if you think the dude trying to talk you up is a giant tool. Don't talk to him. If you do, you might realize that not only is he the awesomest person you could imagine but that he also lives near your hometown, near your family and longtime friends and, talking to him, you get very crushed out and you kiss and exchange information and you email and he responds, saying he'll be on your side of the country in a matter of weeks and then you play crazy phone tag to the point where you wonder if you're ever supposed to talk at all. And then you realize you're not. Because a month or so after he's supposed to come out your way you end up going out his way for a conference and you two talk about meeting up and you're both excited and then he doesn't follow up to get the details and it turns out that maybe you're the only who was excited about it after all and you get inordinately bummed about it because you've only met once but he's also the first person in a long, long time that you'd been quite that excited about and so, it turns out, we're not getting married after all.

But don't cry for me, Argentina, I'm too sexy for your tears.

The Starpower Times: This Just In!

2006-12-11T20:00:00.000-08:00

Update of an exclusive reported earlier here at The Starpower Times. Once again, my dad, reporter from the Lexington Bureau:

(Lexington) In a surprise move late this afternoon, the Board of Directors of Chimney Springs International, parent company of Chimney Springs Sporting Ventures LLC, issued the following statement:

"We wish to clarify certain actions undertaken recently at Chimney Springs since we believe current press accounts may have lead some to draw inaccurate or untoward conclusions. The Board of Chimney Springs International is resolute in its ongoing support for conservation efforts that sustain migratory fowl, globally and in Rockbridge County.

"It has come to our attention that Mr. M.L. Smith of our Rockbridge facility has somehow misinterpreted the installation of our latest artistic acquisition, the contemporary organic artwork, 'Taut Twines,' for some type of bird flight inhibiting device. Nothing could be further from the truth. We have advised Mr. Smith of the Board's dismay with this rash and presumptuous misinterpretation, and have urged him henceforth to devote greater and more timely attention to internal Chimney Springs memoranda.

"Blending performance art and living sculpture, 'Taut Twines' symbolizes the universal vexations of fly anglers everywhere as they struggle with omnipresent forces that seek to ensnare their back-casts. The artwork, specially commissioned by the Chimney Springs Board, will be on display through late February. Reflecting artistic influences as diverse as Christo, Minimalism and Home Depot, 'Taut Twines' speaks to the dichotomy inherent in virtually all contradictory dualities. The Board notes that the work's current placement at Chimney Springs is solely for maximum artistic impact, in homage to its inventive forebears, and in no way is intended to impair or impede local fauna."

When pressed for further details about Mr. Smith's future with Chimney Springs, a Board spokes said, somewhat cryptically: "We believe Mr. Smith's afternoon will be more productively spent away from the Mac, and perhaps back at the Nintendo."

The Starpower Times' Local Dispatch from Virginie Correspondent (a.k.a my dad)

2006-12-11T19:48:00.000-08:00

(Lexington) In a sudden and unexpected announcement, M.L.Smith, proprietor of Chimney Springs Sporting Ventures LLC, today imposed an emergency suspension of esthetic principles in the management of his renowned trout fishery at 2 Mountain View Lane.

"It was not an easy or pleasant decision," Smith noted. "But it forced my hand."

The "it" in question is a juvenile great blue heron that Smith alleges has been depredating his recently stocked brook trout.

"Oh, there's no 'alleged' about it, Bub," Smith emphasized to reporters. "It's down there, hanging out in the shallows, right where the spring comes in and right where the brook trout are -- that's it, that's Strike Three in my books!"

In order to dissuade potential heron predation, Smith rigged a series of twine barriers across the shallows, thereby preventing large wading birds -- such as the heron -- from alighting.

"Yeah, it's ugly as all get out," said Smith's "land manager," who asked not to be identified by name. "But this here's Rockbridge County, so that don't matter none. Heck fire, I could string him some nice Christmas lights there along that twine, too, if his missus would let him -- and wouldn't take 'em down neither til summer or whenever them bulbs burnt out. But that light might bother them trout, you know."

Smith offered apologies to prospective anglers for any possible casting inconvenience or the prospect of a displeasing vista, and hastened to assure them the situation was only temporary.

"We are confident this is only a brief phase, and that soon the new trout will be of sufficient size to reduce their exposure to predation."

When questioned by local environmentalists about the legality of the apparatus, Smith bristled: "I spent my entire career in furtherance of conservation laws! And I salute the dedicated men and women who diligently administer the Migratory Bird Treaty Act."

"Yeah, what he said," echoed Smith's land manager, "but this here's a livestock issue."

He even declared my Master’s degree “fluff”

2006-12-07T13:12:00.000-08:00

When I first moved here, I was lucky enough to work at a place that had such cool people that I liked them very much and, as a result, had found a nice little friend base to go with the salary and fabulous commute (a commute I now recall wistfully (sigh)). I also had cool roommates, which led to another li’l base of friends. Meeting so many people so soon made for a nice soft landing here in Cali and I was feeling lucky about attracting as many good people into my life as possible (Hi, I’m Friend Glue!). To this end, I was always on the lookout for more friends and maybe even something more. It was the Friends category I was thinking of when I wrote the following email, though re-reading it, it appears to be more in the Flirt-A-Thon-2005 camp. It was met very positively as such by the recipient who I’d come to refer to as the Surfing Doctor to my new pals, on account of he surfed and was a doctor. (And since the nickname was so obvious, I came to refer to myself as the Obvious Nicknamer. (I’ll leave it to you to untangle how I came up with that one.))

Following said email, the Surfing Doctor (aka Peter) and I had a date that was nothing short of disastrous (okay, okay, I’m exaggerating: wildly uncomfortable). I was super late (had to look good, you know?), he was super hungry (and thus a little short of patience) and then, over dinner, he tried very hard to impress me by knowing everything (including current events I should have known, but didn’t (so embarrassing, I should have studied first!)) and comparing his work experience and salary with mine. Hott.

Needless to say, there was no second date, but we’ll always have the intro:

Hi Peter,

It's a bit awkward trying to email someone that your friend doesn't even know to say you should meet. I tried to come up with clever ways of introducing myself ([Starpower]) to you. Here were the finalists:

Breezy:

Hey Pete,

I'm your MN pal's pal and we live close to each other in LA. Maybe we should get a beer sometime? No worries either way.

Peace,
[Starpower]

Super-important LA-style:

Peter, right?

I heard you wanted to meet me. I'm like super-busy, but I guess I could meet you for martinis in WeHo. I just heard about the HOTTEST spot. Don't worry, I can totally get us in.

You're welcome,
Chantal [stage name]

Nervous:

Um, Peter?

I don't know if you remember, but your friend Joanne mentioned that her friend Susan has a friend who lives in LA? Um, well, that's me and if you wanted to get a beer sometime, well, I don't know if you drink and if you don't drink that's TOTALLY fine (I mean, I'm totally not a big drinker either PLEASE don't think I'm an alcoholic!!!!), but then maybe we could get some coffee? Unless you don't drink caffeine (oh my gah am I doing this all wrong? Are you sooo offended??). Well, I don't know, a hike or frisbee...unless you're not outdoorsy. Oh my gah this is soooo hard! Just, I don't know, get in touch if you want to hang out sometime. I understand if you're too busy to meet up. I didn't mean to take up so much of your time.

Sorry.

Frat boy:

'sup brah?!

My girl Su said your friend thought we should hang out. You in?? Just be warned, dude, that I like to pound beers [not really] and can quote ALL of Old School [kinda]. Not trying to be a dick, man, but only call if you can hang.

later.
[Star]-dog

Formal/legal:

Mr. XXXXXX,

Pursuant to discussions held in Minnesota between one Joanne [last name?] and one Susan XXXXX [weird last name], I am making contact via email to suggest [got too boring, had to abandon ship]

Okay, so there you have it, my best(?) attempts. Anyway, I live in Venice and would like to meet up sometime. Suie (aka Susan, aka my girl Su) will be in town this weekend (yay!) so that could be a really fun time to hang out if you want to join us.

Let me know!

Boredom is the mother of invention (if buying CDs is inventive, that is)

2006-12-05T21:45:00.000-08:00

Aside from how awesome it is that my computer at home doesn’t work, I am having similar issues at the place of business. Maybe I’m my own Mercury-in-Retrograde since shit’s breaking all around me. My home is like an electronics graveyard: the DVD player’s working but not hooked up to the TV I still can’t watch, the VCR is bona-fide b-r-o-k-e-n as is the 6 CD-changer I didn’t bother to hook up to the tuner which doesn’t get any radio stations (no antennae) and sometimes I can get my record player to work for a few minutes before an awful noise overtakes the speakers as if it’s reverb on an amp. (Have I mentioned this before? Am I a broken record?) Anyway, my iPod headphones are too scratchy to be of any quality use, so I am using some cheapo ones from an o-l-d MP3 player but the cord from the headphones is super short, so movement during use is limited. Not that it matters too too much, since I have no access to iTunes anymore, lost as it is behind the darkness of the laptop’s cruel screen. Egads. The woman, she may as well live in the stone ages, depending on the color from berries to squeeze on a slab of rock for entertainment (when not running from mastodons or being clubbed on the head and dragged by the hair by some total Cro-magnon).

It’s not all bad. I still have CDs, which I play through the DVD player via the tuner and they sound great through my trusty little Bose speakers. No TV equals not only more reading but much more listening to music and—to unite my teeny media worlds—reading about music. I recommend this month’s Blender magazine, not just because of the eerie resemblance of one of the members of My Chemical Romance (featured on the cover) to a friend from 5^th grade on through high school (Fleck, can I get a witness? It’s creepy, seriously. I keep doing quadruple-takes.). You should also read it because of the hilarious interview with Jared Leto, which reveals, in no uncertain terms, just what a jackass that guy truly is. So funny and I’d like to acknowledge the hard-hitting fear-no-backlash reporter who boldly described Leto—in the very article—as “kind of a douchebag.” Now, that’s journalism, people. (Also, it’s the LA issue, which automatically makes it like 1,000 times more interesting.)

Since the music revolution in the crib has taken hold, I found the need to recharge the supply and, thus, headed out to Amoeba on Sunday. About two things will bring me willingly to Hollywood: my friend A and Amoeba. The former is fabulous and fun and the latter is a huge record store with new, used, super-bargain-basement-used CDs, tapes, records, DVDs, etc. and all are guaranteed to play perfectly. Here’s what I got, mostly all used:

Silversun Pickups—Pickul. Awesome, awesome, awesome. I got this CD because I so love their newest one (the song “Lazy Eye” has been getting some alterna-airplay of late). I totally dig this band and think you should, too. It burns me that they’ll be playing here when I’ll be playing in New York. It doesn’t appear that they’ll be back for months either. Dis.
French Kicks—Trial of the Century. Bought somewhat spur of the moment based 100% on my love of the title track. So, so good. Haven’t listened to the album yet, will report back.
Sonic Youth—CD version of a 10” that I’ve had for about 10 years which includes 100%, Crème Brulee, some other song, and Genetic, aka the-song-I-was-obsessed-with-in-grad-school.
Despite it’s name (“The Cool List” (ugh)), I also got NME’s 2005 compilation, which, halfway into it, kicks ass. Here’s why: We Are Scientists, The Go! Team, Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah, and Be Your Own Pet. The first two I know I love, the second two I’ve loved in passing and want to hear more. Other good reasons to buy this CD, I’m learning: Test Icicles (total rock and roll), The Cribs, The Paddingtons, Antony and the Johnsons. Kano could be a winner. Forward Russia has promise as well as The Long Blondes. More still, but haven’t gotten to it yet.

All of this is to say that I have finally emerged from the phase that consisted solely of Blood on the Tracks, motivated by evening walks in the park with the Timbot and Sureshot when, seeing park benches, the lyrics took hold: They sat together in the dark/as the evening sky grew dark/She looked at him and he felt a spark/tingle to his bones.

Such a great song from such a great album, but the quiet evenings with Dylan, candlelight and dinner preparation have now been supplanted with rock and roll, Blender magazine and pizza. Sometimes I get antsy, and sometimes what soothes the soul isn’t calm.

Or maybe I just wanna rock—gotta rock—and no one and I mean NO ONE, not even YOU, Mr. Gurgencheck, can stop me.

And I thought my attraction to Borat was confusing

2006-12-05T00:38:00.000-08:00


I feel conflicted about this keyboard player in ways that I am not comfortable acknowledging... though the song's awesomeness TOTALLY speaks for itself.

The state of my mates

2006-12-05T00:29:00.000-08:00

For my birthday this year, my friends—and even a fave cousin visiting from Seattle—were the total rockstars that they all are and joined me for a party with presents and cake and cupcakes and liquor and all the Red Barron four cheese frozen pizza (the best non-New York pizza going) a girl could ever ask for. I was honored and humbled and, of course, the Belle of the Ball with my tiara, fairy wings, and wand (shout out to Annie for the half-off Halloween wear!). B supplied much of the party goods—including her house—and a first-time-ever-attempt at baking a cake (lovingly lopsided deliciousness). A and T brought cupcakes in addition to CDs and a bath set (do I offend?) while T and A (heh heh) brought the biggest yummiest pudding concoction ever concocted along with handmade (by T) earrings and a beautiful scarf. C and R gave an awesome scarf as well and A and S brought iTunes money and three fab bracelets I wear often. Even Timmy and Shorty got some bling care of A (is it me or do like 75% of my friends have names that start with the letter A? Weird.) My friend H (there we go) brought a cool mini-make up touch up kit and J brought a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, wrapped thoughtfully in the plastic grocery bag in which it was carried from the store. Many people brought beer and wine to augment the margaritas being made and served by the fella I was dating at the time.

(Note: We’d dated for about three weeks at the time of the party, which made his behavior Peculiarly Boyfriend-y. Then we didn’t hang out at all anymore, which proved his behavior to be Particularly LA, in a word: peculiar. (Note #2: I have decided to write more about my dating life here, a thing I have left largely unmentioned until this point. (Note #3: I am doing this to entertain you and to make you come back more since I’ll be writing more AND because I have come to the decision that The Laptop Fund is going to come from the ads that I am going to place on this here site but won’t say anything else about that until I read about what is and isn’t allowed to say w/r/t placing said ads. (Note #4: I hope you have no problem seeing some ads around here. (Note #5: You having a problem with seeing some ads around here is tantamount to you begrudging me a new laptop and what’s up with that, Grinch? Perhaps your heart needs to grow three sizes and maybe you need to see a cute little dog to help you do just that and to help you might I refer you to the previous entry? You’ll notice that Li’l Timmy Tap looks EXACTLY like the mean Grinch’s sad little dog who tried and tried and tried to pull that huge load of presents you tried to steal from the yahoo-dorray-singing townspeople and it wasn’t in that little dog’s huge heart to steal, he was just doing it for you, to make you happy. And did it? Did it, Grinch?! (Note #6: I’m new to this ad-placing-please-read-my-blog-so-I-can-make-some-money-thing, but maybe insulting you isn’t the way to bring you back, huh? You’re right. I’m sorry. (Note #7: I really like your shirt today.)))))))

So, the birthday party ended and the remaining folks all went to my new favorite neighborhood bar; complete with pool, pinball (pinball!), and big beers priced the size of regular-sized beers. I’m more a liquor gal myself, but I heartily respect this last feature. The place has been around since 1915 and is the oldest bar in Venice…and possibly the oldest thing in the state of California. The jukebox is filled with all manner of classic rock offerings with the occasional newer thing, but it’s not uncommon to hear some Rolling Stones, Eagles and Boston, creating a vaguely yesteryear, Anytown vibe that I find a refreshing departure from the TooCoolForSchool bar up the street where I sip wine and pick up men. Plus, it’s never crowded and the folks are nice. Hence, my new favorite bar. So we go and it’s fun. Never much to report about that place but that it’s a good time, so that thread ends right here.

…to pick up a thread abandoned shortly after the beginning of this post: presents people gave me for being alive and being awesome. Now I loved all the presents with equal amounts of love. Let’s get that straight right here and now. But, there’s one gift I wanted to highlight here: tickets. C and J got me two tickets to see Mates of State play a few weeks hence. C was the one who’d turned me on to them, which made the gift especially fab. Here’re some reasons why the show itself was fab:

We’d missed them when they opened for Spoon and Cry-Me-A-Melodically-Self-Absorbed-Though-Undeniably-Catchy-River (aka Death Cab).
It was the day after Thanksgiving which meant no work to rush from to get to the show (not to be underestimated in this town). This no-work-day also meant my pal H could drive up from Huntington Beach to use the other ticket.
It was at the El Rey Theater, which is like a mini-Wiltern but closer and with better parking options.
They were really good as were the opening acts, The Botticellis and, especially, Asobi Seksu (check them out).
I had a star sighting and fell in love.

Not wanting to divulge anyone’s privacy, I’ll just give you hints to piece together the identity of said star:

He was a correspondent on the Daily Show, where his brother continues to be a correspondent. This means they know Stephen Colbert (probably) and Jon Stewart (definitely). Sigh.
He now acts on Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip and does a fabulous job.
His name is Nate Corddry.

Let me tell you: he may look all little-boy style on TV, but in real life, he’s all man, my friends. Unlike others stars, who are all a solid 6-11” shorter in real life (maybe I shouldn’t spoil Luke Wilson for you), Nate was the same size you’d think he is: not super tall, but taller than me and that’s what matters (to all of you, too, I’m sure). Not only was he Actual Size, but he also had a styley beard and a hip indie-boy plaid button down. Hott. I mean it. Good thing I didn’t say hi.

I don’t want to say much else, because if I see him at shows in the future, I want to play it cool so we can start dating and not many first dates should involve the line, “So, I dissected your appearance on my blog the other day. Don’t worry, it was all good.” Everyone knows that that’s strictly second date material and I don’t want to jump the gun on this one, people. I see real potential for Nate and me. It’s probably already love, but I think we should meet to make sure.

I'll take some Tapshoes with a Side of Pancakes, please

2006-11-28T16:48:00.000-08:00

Mister Tapshoes brimming over with love.

And the Great Mister Shortstack.

My heart swells.

How I miss you! I can explain...

2006-11-24T10:04:00.000-08:00

My laptop's broked down. It was having problems and then I think they were fixed and they, in fact, might be, but then the LED blew, leaving only a black screen in its wake. Stupid LED. As if 5+ years is an acceptable lifespan. (Really? It is? Dang.)

So there you go, the reason why I haven't posted. Which is too bad because now would be a fabulous time to write and write to my heart's content. The reason for this is the enormous amount of free-time I now find in the evenings since my roommate challenged me to go for ONE MONTH WITHOUT WATCHING TELEVISION. Let's forget for a second how cool this makes me sound and move on to my reaction to his challenge: horror. Said horror should have signled that I do, in fact, have a problem with the boob tube. Its soft glow, its funny little people making jokes, its narration of lions laying in a savannah (and right when I began to use TV for educational purposes...gah.). At first I flat out refused. I simply can't do that. Not watch TV? But I loooove TV...

I awoke the next morning with the absurdity of his suggestion still ringing in my ears. On the drive home from work that same day, I told my friend A about it who was equally taken aback. Then we proceeded to talk and laugh for the next 20 minutes about all of our favorite programs. Sigh, at least she understands television's important role in one's life even if my grad-school-for-English roommate, who's all into "books" and "reading" and "writing" doesn't. When you say Dylan, he thinks Dylan Thomas. The man ain't got no cultchah.

So, the rest of the ride home got me thinking, could I, a woman without TiVo, go for an entire month doing something other than seeing who the Bachelor picks, seeing how Pam feels when Jim returns to the Scranton office--with a new lady in tow? Could I manage to end my evenings without seeing episodes of Sex and the City or Friends for the millionth time? And what about Colbert? Sweet, sweet Colbert? Won't he miss me?

Through the dizzying sadness I felt a tiny glimmer of resolve forming, one that grew and grew, despite the fact that the growing romance between Lorelei and Rory's dad--a thing that took me more than a couple episodes to support (not that that Luke was any good for her)--was going to be featured in less than an hour. I thought of the great books I was reading and hadn't seemed to reach the end of; the formidable stack of books on my bedside table that still awaited my attention. I thought of going to bed at a reasonable hour, a thing that the soft glow and funny people seemed, without fail, to waylay. I thought, hmmm, maybe cold turkey's the way to go. It worked with quitting smoking all those years back...

So, I got home and accepted his offer. And I hate it. I miss TV. It hurts the most on Monday and Thursdays. The challenge allows me to go to movies, but movies cannot be viewed here in the apartment. I warned that I'd be bugging him to use his computer (which I am on now) A LOT more. Turns out that that hasn't really happened.

Most evenings now look like this: music on, candle burning, me reading or the two of us talking. The living room feels much better this way. And I am moving through the book stack. And going to bed on time.

I don't know what this will mean for me and my old flame, TV. When the month ends--at 7:58 pm on Dec. 14--will I rush to it with open arms, kisses and promises to never stray again? Probably.

I voted today

2006-11-07T09:42:00.000-08:00

Oh yes I did.

Hear ye! Hear. ye. (A manifesto.)

2006-09-25T16:46:00.000-07:00

I was so heartened to read the Washington Post article, Three Retired Officers Demand Rumsfeld's Resignation,that, if I were to have published the story in The Starpower Times, I'd have called it Three Retired Officers Starpower Would Kiss on the Mouth. I'd even put up a picture (if they'd let me kiss them, that is). As well as an interactive flowchart of Rumsfeld's ceremonious firing, execution, and speedy descent to his homeland, Hell, to be re-seated at the left hand of Satan. The Starpower Times--the "ST" to those in the know--would have pictures all Harry Potter-style so could watch the whole thing. You could even yell insults at him that he could hear. Get your yelling voices ready! Sigh, if only...

I can only laugh so long. I really hate that guy.

...which brings me to another thing that has been of great concern lately--this would be an op-ed piece in the ST--and that is the seething anger most if not all Dems have these days. Anger at the continuing war and lives lost, anger at the horrific response to Katrina, and more insidiously the problems--racism, poverty, classism--Katrina revealed (long-standing problems, to be sure, but worsened by the funding-starved social support systems, public health and otherwise), anger at the lying and trickery of the current regime, the inhumane evil outlook of the current regime and, perhaps most of all, our own party's seeming inability to fight fire with fire. Read comments people leave on lefty blogs and see the sheer venom people have no other place to inject but back into our own veins. Dramatic, I know, but seriously, folks, people are pissed and helpless. We yell at each other, fuel each other's ire and get swamped in collective Fuck-it-ness.

I leave comments on blogs. I'm not innocent on that count and, in our need to vent, none of us are guilty. We have to vent, because it's just scary and frustrating and sad what this country is becoming. But, in terms of what this country is becoming, we are, in another sense, guilty. We are angry at our leadership, call them complicit in the destruction of the country. I wonder if that's the case. This is what I see:

1. Dems/FORMER Dems desperate for their representatives to either (a) get into office, (b) actually represent, (c) who cares-they suck-we're screwed-why vote? Common theme among them? Angry, angry, angry. And why shouldn't we be?! We have every right, but let's look at where anger can lead...

2. A "Daddy-avenging" war that should never have begun and is ripping at least one country to shreds

3. A war that is so horribly "managed" (puke) that even our military is against it (well at least some members)

4. A war so awful that it's CREATING the problems we portended to try to eliminate: more and more terrorist cell-lets born all the time (duh--as if war softens peoples' edges)

The war issue is so divisive in our own country--and please listen up here--that we are no longer political parties, it seems, but factions and when factions argue they fight and that fight is not safely tucked away on senate floors between the leadership but between neighbors who used to have cookouts because we are so tightly wound these days--ALL of us--we're angry and looking for a fight and what makes a ground more fertile for fighting than a pissed-off populace? Divide and destroy, people. Just look at Iraq. So, I ask you, are the Dems In Charge really being wussies or maybe trying to waylay some potentially awful civil conflict in our own country?

Okay, okay, so maybe I'm giving them too much credit? Maybe they are spineless neo-apologists for the current regime (if you can't beat'em, talk like'em and hope they vote for you by accident), but I like to think--have to think--that there's a way out of this mess we call the Homeland (ugh, I sound so Republican (see?!)) and back into the nation we called United.

For me, the war becomes The Thing I Don't Think About; the news, Something I Can Only Stomach Sometimes. It can swallow you up, you know? Sometimes you have to back away. Not so you can bury your head, but so you don't lose it.

I lived in Angola in Summer 1999, a country at the time still torn by civil conflict--decades of conflict--and there was NOTHING left. Well, there were these things: starvation, starvation, starvation, poverty, starvation, drunk security guards with AK-47s, orphans (from AIDS? the war?) living together under trees in city parks, landmine-disabled mothers and kids (not to mention soldiers) looking for food in fields and getting injured instead, tons of ex-pats getting drunk in restaurants that charge more for a meal than most Angolans make in one year (not exaggerating here), bombing (lest we forget there's a war going on), RAMPANT alcoholism (as in 10 year olds drinking beer because it's literally more accessible than water) and enough government rhetoric you almost want to turn off the one-TV-station-TV (almost, they played awesome cartoons and Brazilian novellas, too!).

It was a hard place to be, even for seven weeks. I had to take a vacation in the middle of it for ten days--they make you--and UN employees would get Hardship Pay. Their family members weren't allowed to join them living there. Too difficult. So they'd go it alone--and get drunk at restaurants where most Angolans couldn't eat (again, unless they saved up for a year). It wasn't easy on anyone--though the frango was delicious (I will not apologize for enjoying that).

Things in Angola are better now--they finally killed the rebel leader, Savimbi (who's been seen shaking Reagan's hand a time or two--all you had to do for arms money during the Cold War was say "Democracy"). Savimbi was not all bad and El Presidente wasn't all good--they were both bad. Hussein and Bush are both bad. You can argue one is worse than the other and I'd argue back that maybe one was just more obvious. Point being: Savimbi and the President fought over power of Angola for forty years and the only reason the war ended was because one of them was finally killed--and so the rest of them stopped fighting. Are things better in Angola--a place with no stable infrastructure to speak of, a place of sick and injured and poor citizens, a place so rich in diamonds and oil that, had--history worked out a bit differently--could easily have been a world superpower--is Angola honestly better off now because of the war that was fought or because it ended?

They are better because it ended. War is beyond-words-bad. I have seen it. And the "low-grade" one I saw was nothing compared to what's happening in Iraq right now. I don't have to make a case to you to stop the war--to find some way to withdraw our troops while providing some support to the Iraqi people (let's begin with no longer killing them)--but the case I want to make is this: we know violence and killing are wrong. It is destructive.

But so is anger, if unbridled, unchecked. We have to check ourselves and see where the fester-meter is when we talk about politics, where it is when we think about people dying or poor, left at the Superdome or caught in crossfire in Baghdad. We have to check to see that we haven't so tuned out that we won't vote. We can blog to bitch so long as blog to propose solutions and provide hope (here's an example of a good balance).

We have to check the us-them thinking. If not, we contribute to the divide and destroy machine.

Remember that most people are generally good. Maybe ignorant (snap! (there goes that point...)) but good.

Be respectful and disagree politely. Like our leaders (should).

Garden, do yoga, love your family, whatever--just do it consciously and conscientiously.

Remember that there is a huge world out there filled with conflict and peace and some of it may have nothing to do with the Homeland (ugh) or Iraq.

Think of Antarctica or the Himalayas or the Dalai Lama or your dog and how, with (maybe) the exception of one, they don't give a shit about any of the whole mess. They go on just the same because it's all in the moment for them. It's all about this second, now this one, now this one, now this one...

And, my God, we have to laugh, people. My favorite joke:

What did Washington tell his men before getting on the boat?
Men, get on the boat.

Shall we?

Straighten up and cough right.

2006-09-22T10:50:00.000-07:00

Your sneeze could use some help, too.

No offense, but maybe this intructional video can lead you to improved management of your semi-involuntary bodily functions.

Note: You can still fake-cough the word "bullshit" into your hands. (Same with other words such as "yeah right" and "I hate the president" though these take more advanced fake-coughing techniques.)

You're welcome and God bless you.

Starpower's Really Spicy and Slightly Oily Water (meant to be soup)

2006-09-14T01:07:00.000-07:00

1. Chop carrots and celery with the intention of putting together a salad. (Do your best to make sure that it is no earlier than 9 pm when the rest of your dinner is prepared and getting cold.)

2. Rinse lettuce, fresh basil, cilantro and arugula, set aside (dripping in colander).

3. Make room on the cutting board for more chopping by tilting the cutting board and letting the chopped carrots and celery fall into a large bowl that you think is the home for the salad.

4. Chop basil and cilantro and add to bowl.

5. Add olive oil, sea salt, and pepper to the carrots-celery-basil-cilantro so they can "mingle" while you move on to chop spring and white onions. Feel smart about doing this.

6. Think of how delicious the salad is going to be.

7. Smell how yummy it is already.

8. Feel urge to heat up carrots, celery, onions, spring onions, olive oil, salt and pepper; realizing that it would be a fantastic base for some sort of meal you're not going to cook since your dinner is already prepared (and getting even closer to room temperature).

9. Remember container of organic free-range chicken broth in cabinet.

10. Remember new commitment to use crock pot.

11. Wash out crock pot from remainder of lentil soup while congratulating self on using crock pot not once, but now a second time!

12. Combine broth, carrot-celery-basil-cilantro-white onion-spring onion-olive oil-sea salt-pepper, cayenne pepper (try to add way too much here), water, some other spices not recalled here (hope it won't ruin the recipe for when you try it at home!!!) and, for the hell of it, a giant arugula leaf.

13. Cover and cook on medium for several hours.

14. Eat already-prepared dinner and use rinsed greens for a side salad.

15. Stir soup.

16. Taste it.

17. Feel burning in mouth and immediate sensation of every single sinus in face bursting wide open, as if follwing orders of a drill instructor.

18. Think adding actual chicken may have filled the soup out nicely.

Serve over rice. Enjoy.

Anniversary

2006-09-11T10:43:00.000-07:00

To those who were killed on September 11, 2001: Rest peacefully.

To those of us still here: Live peacefully.

Love musis

2006-08-21T19:19:00.000-07:00

Lest you think all I do is walk my dogs, I'd like to tell you about how I have made good on a vow I made earlier in the summer: to see more live music, or, as my too-fast-typing sister refers to it, love musis.

The flagship show of the summer stills remains the best: Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins, at my new favorite LA venue, Spaceland, which is in Silverlake just two blocks from the apartment I should have moved to but didn't know I'd be offered a job downtown that would have meant like a 15 minute commute instead of the 45 minute commute I drive twice a day from all the way over here on the westside. I tell myself it's okay that I didn't move to that very cute, albeit amenity-less, apartment because one of the amenities it lacked was parking so Spaceland, instead of being my new fave venue for rocking out and cheap pool, would've been my new bane because parking would suck so bad every night there was a show (e.g. every night) I'd be bitter neighbor Starpower instead of rocking-out, pool-playing Starpower so all in all, it was a great show. I'm just saying.

Later that week I went to the Dreadful Hollywood Bowl to see The Shins and Belle and Sebastian. It was not fun because it was too much of a pain in the ass to be fun: driving home to WALK THE DOGS (shees, can I write a post without mentioning them?!) and then all the way out past my then workplace and into dreaded, dreaded Hollywood--naturally the home to the Dreadful Hollywood Bowl. Let me be clear: Hollywood doesn't suck because of its weirdos or street performers or hookers or movie premieres or general vacuousness (which is far worse in West Hollywood, anyway). No, it sucks because it's so hard to get to: not super close to desirable freeways and always much further north on stupid La Cienega than you ever remember needing to go. Blech, Hollywood. Which is pretty much the mood I was in by the time we got to the Stupid Hollywood Bowl and had to stupid park at Stupid Hollywood and Highland and stupid walk and in the shoes that were clearly a bad idea and then wait in line for the one stupid beer you can get and still be a responsible driver three hours later and oh how were The Shins? I wouldn't know. We got there too late. I fear I like Belle and Sebastian less because of the stupid venue. That and Stuart Murdoch's theatrical application of and purposeful smudging of mascara to better illustrate a particular song's message. Nothing against dudes in make-up, but definitely not down for theatrics at a show. Stupid Belle and Sebastian.

A few short days later (this was "show week" which immediately followed "Grand Canyon long weekend") I went to the Troubador in West Hollywood to see Built to Spill. I have been a fan since 1994 and have seen them several times. Allow me to say that I LOVE Doug Martsch. Should I ever be lucky enough to fall in the kind of love that makes you want to get married, I would likely leave my husband for Doug Martsch. I say this for several reasons and by several I mean one. He's mesmerizing, absolutely mesmerizing. For every single Grateful Dead show I was lucky enough to go to, for every Phish concert I ever saw, I always, at one point or another, got bored. At Dead shows it was invariably Space/Drums (ugh, 15 minutes later, enough already!). For Phish, it was always some rabbit hole they'd fall into mid-song. Needless to say, I was very happy once they'd find and work their way out--often with some fabulous crescndo that made me happy again. But Built to Spill, or Doug Martsch, rather...that guy can wail on guitar for twenty minutes and I am rooted to the ground watching with rapt attention, wanting more, not less, and wail is the absolute wrong word because it is something entirely different: more language than sound though it has none of that weird my-guitar-sounds-like-it's-talking crudeness, no. It's not like he's even communicating with the audience so much as communing with his guitar and we're, it just so happens, standing there, watching. So yeah, I'd leave my imaginary husband for Doug, my imaginary boyfriend. I don't want to tell you about that show because, setlist-wise it was not the best I'd seen and, musically, their new album is far from my favorite but I have to tell you my love for them has become fully-realized this summer, like the boy next door who suddenly looks hot as hell even though you know he looked exactly the same way he did last summer there's just something different and maybe it's you and maybe it's him but does it matter, really?, because there's a great blue sky and breezy breeze and the sun is just so and don't forget the tall trees and the ocean and it's all like a daytime buzz and it's all perfect and I'm not sure when it happened but I think Built to Spill is my favorite band.

That's it, no more writing. I'll tell you about Mates of State (missed'em, too late)/Spoon/Death Cab as well as The Like/The Sounds another time.

Hi, I’m the Joneses.

2006-08-18T10:59:00.000-07:00

Be it far from me to EVER brag about myself, but I have noticed something recently that—though others may not know it—casts me in a fabulous light. A trendsetter, if you will. A Grassroots Fitness Movement Maven, if you also will.

It all started out simply enough; yet another attempt to shut my damn dogs up when I walk them in the park. I thought [hmm]:

The Dog Whisperer says exercise is the most important thing for dogs
He also says to distract them when they’re about to do something you don’t like, like barking at other, far more well-behaved dogs with owners who think you--or at least your dogs--suck

I thought some more [hmm. hmm.]:

What can I do to distract and exercise my dogs? Then it hit me: run them instead of walk them! So, mid-walk one evening, I started to run and, attached to me by leashes, they had no choice but to follow. Heh.

So we’d run. Did I look like a jackass running in heels and a dress? Totally, but in sort of a dog show kind of way. Did they (and “they” is usually just Mr. Shortpants) stop barking as they ran past other dogs? Totally not. But we passed them faster, so the offense was minimized. Yes! Did my ankles and knees benefit from this running-in-heels-at-worst-but-still-supportless-flip-flops-at-best? Nope. So I adjusted. I switched the running to the morning with full running gear on. We go a little farther every morning (by like two feet, but that’s a lot for dogs with legs 4 inches high).

Aaanyway, since implementing our new little exercise/shut-the-hell-up-already regimen, I’ve noticed my neighbors have begun to do so as well. People who used to hardly even walk their dogs so much as stand in one place for minutes on end now come out with sweats and running shoes and take their pooches for a little trek down the bike path JUST LIKE ME.

It’s heartening to realize that this whole time I thought they couldn’t stand me they were actually just waiting for a way to emulate me.

Sigh. I am really the fucking best.

SOMEONE's gonna be grossing $50 more a month!

2006-08-09T16:50:00.000-07:00

So I should let you know that I quit my job (read: WOO-HOO!!!!) because I got a new job (read: woo? hoo?). I think the new job'll be great and all, it's just that it's going to be a real job with a real commute and I'll have to wear respectable clothing. Ugh.

BUT--I'll get to be the boss of someone! They'll have to answer to ME! Mwa-ha-ha. No more stupid busywork for me, no sirree, because that'll all be passed on to my (heh heh) UNDERLING--the one bringing me decaf soy lattes and picking up my dry cleaning. I can't wait. I think I'll really shine the light to a brighter future for UNDERLING. As a boss, it's my job.

I'll still be a good time, though. I'll be one of those cool bosses, the one that can hang, the one that--during happy hours--lets it all hang out. Should there be a Welcome Starpower Happy Hour--and if there is, that will be my suggested title for it--I think my just-one-of-the-guys behavior will show that I am not just above you professionally, I'm beneath you personally as well. Something like this.

Another reason I'm awesome is...

2006-08-02T10:40:00.000-07:00

...that I'm sooo cutting edge.

Which means more? Reputation or wack conviction?

2006-08-01T10:53:00.000-07:00

So I wonder if Mel Gibson's career will be ruined. I don't think so. If Woody Allen is out making movies while making out with his one-time daughter and if Michael Jackson still manages to have hoards of fans worldwide despite too many things to list here, then Mel's despicable drunken display will all too soon be forgotten and he'll be back from his doubtless-publicist-mandated stint in rehab in no time. I don't think this is acceptable, but I think that's how it's going to go down.

It begs the question, though, when Mel does make his inevitable come-back in some hero role where he's so charming the (non-Jewish) masses forgive him, is he going to be grateful and pleased that he regained his career or is he going to feel defeated to discover that, gasp, the Jews don't own Hollywood after all?

Attention everyone: power wears high heels

2006-07-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

Read this post. And then read it again.

And think of the water in which we all swim.

These are the people in your neighborhood

2006-07-24T16:37:00.000-07:00

Each morning, I walk the Timbot and the Sureshot to the park by the marina. In order to get to the marina, we have to cut through the Ralph’s parking lot. Now one would think that a grocery store parking lot would be boring and, for the most part, it is. Well, at first glance anyway…

Once you are used to the basics of the environment—cars, shopping carts, rows of parking spots, islands of small trees bookending said rows (aka pee-spots for the dogs)—you start to notice the unique qualities and the people. You start to recognize the Ralph’s employee who always takes her yogurt-eating break at the edge of the park, the Ralph’s employee whose job it is to (a) sweep the entire parking lot with an industrial broom and squared-off aluminum dustpan and (b) to NEVER smile at passing dogwalkers who always smile at him (gah), the Ralph’s employee with the best afro ever, the occasional transients camped out in the far northeast corner of the lot. Now when I say “camped out” I mean two people sleeping in sleeping bags on the pavement. Camped out. They were only here for a week or so before moving on to the next great grocery store lot on what surely must be their national tour of grocery store lots.

In fact, I wonder if they review parking-lots-for-camping-purposes online. Someone must be, because the Marina del Rey Ralph’s is a hit! And not just the sleeping bag on the ground variety, either. We’re talking four-star multi-purpose camping, people. We’re talking stay in your van with your four other travelers and your little dog named Peanut who likes to chase leashed Chihuahua mixes variety, we’re talking the good looking middle aged puzzlingly-homeless-yet-doing-business professional looking man with a super sweet shepherd mix who appears to meet with clients at his car variety. We’ve got the simple cases: the one-offs that just stay a night or two with their driver seats pulled as far down as their hatchbacks will allow and we’ve got the complicated ones, the ones that inspire endless conjecture, ones like The Hoarder.

When I first moved in, I hadn’t noticed the makeshift trailer park/campground/park-and-rest that is the lot’s northeast corner. To be fair to me (which I am often more than, natch), the days-long van-dwellers and, more brashly, the sleep-right-on-the-grounders had yet to make an appearance. Nothing. Back in those simpler times (May 2006, I believe it was…), the only reason the northeast corner drew my attention was its fairly sizable patch of lawn perfect for late night dogwalking—being well-lit and close to home made it a happy li’l discovery.

It didn’t take long (0.4 seconds) for me to notice the beat-up, rusty and otherwise faded Chevy pick-up parked directly in front of the patch of grass.

Generally-speaking, pick ups aren’t nearly as regular a feature in Southern California as they are in, say, rural Virginia (I’d even bet that the BMW to pick up truck ratio are inversely proportional in the two locales, but I digress…). Anyway, this is to say that, as a former pick up driver myself, I notice pick ups, often a bit wistfully. But not this time. This faded old vehicle caught my eye because of its load: THOUSANDS of crushed cans in weathered plastic bags, PILES upon PILES of yellowed newspapers bundled together, bags and bags OF bags and bags. You name it, the recycling center wanted it, and here it was—day after day after day—in the northeast corner of the Ralph’s parking lot. I couldn’t look away.

Readers: I am not a squeamish woman. I am not easily disturbed and have been in many situations that are far more threatening than simply being near a truck with a bunch of crap in the bed. The truck didn’t scare me (that much) so much as bemuse me. Okay, so I found it a bit unsettling—but isn’t that how you feel when you look at something long enough that you expect it to, at some point, make sense? I looked and looked; it just didn’t ever make sense. Yes it was messy and the materials should have reported to a recycling bin YEARS ago, but the real irritant here was this: who would want to keep all this junk? Why? And did they have special permission for Ralph management to park their junk in this lot?

Thoughts like this occupied me one night while I stood in front of it, on the patch of lawn, waiting for the dogs to poop. I must have been blindly staring into the cab because I perked right up when something moved. Inside the truck. Oh. My. Gah. There was someone in the truck! The view of the face was obstructed by the cardboard slab that the gnarled hand adjusted to further obstruct my view of the face.

Of course I discover this when little Timmy Tapshoes is mid-poop. So I have to stand there, in front of this beat-up truck facing into the cab WHERE THERE IS A PERSON until the dog does his business. At night. And it feels like we are the only two people in the vast expanse of parking lot and, out of all this space, we are five feet apart. Weird.

A few days later, the truck was gone. That little run-in sufficiently curtailed my habit of walking the dogs in the lot in the dark. The truck was what alerted me to the several other lot-sleepers since. No one dangerous, I’m sure, but it’s not exactly a comfortable milieu for sharing space. I just think of how bored they must be, sitting in their cars, or how broke. They must think of how boring my life must be: all cookie-cutter, and play-by-the-rules-y. Their kingdom for the open road. Or something.

Walking the dogs this morning, I noticed the truck was back. In the brightness and clarity that 7 am brings, the man was out of his truck, standing on the pavement, and gingerly placing a crushed can in an old plastic bag that already holds many other crushed cans. I could tell that there was purpose and ownership in his movement, but I didn’t look too closely. Somehow, it all made a little more sense.

My new swimsuit!

2006-07-14T14:31:00.000-07:00

One of two, really. I was thinking this one, but then began to blush picturing myself all whore-style by the ocean. (I mean, pants! How unladylike!) So, I went ahead and ordered this one--in blue, with the tropical underclothes.

How wonderful to feel so virtuous. I can't wait to get it in the mail! Then I can finally be outdoors showing my body in a guilt-free fashion. (And I do mean fashion!)

Ahh, womanhood. What better way to celebrate it than hide all the evidence of it?

Maybe we'll even ride up on horses!

2006-06-21T10:13:00.000-07:00

My friend Matt's wedding is coming up in August. I cannot wait to see him and meet his betrothed, Jody. A little trip to Portland, Oregon to a lodge in the middle of Mount Hood doesn't sound too shabby, either.

I was mentioning this to my friend J and his friend--whom I'll call "Annoying"--last night and added the tidbit that I hadn't actually seen Matt in ten years, since college. They both scoffed. Since college? Ten years? And you're going to his wedding?! I was all, "Yes, I'm going. Matt and I were super tight in college. We recently tracked each other down online and have been in contact a lot since."

Annoying, thinking himself clever, asked, "And they have a registry, right? With gifts listed for you to buy them?" I assumed they did and shrugged and said yes. He laughed and said, "Ha ha, that's why you're going--so they can get more gifts. Ha ha ha...I'll be sure to invite you to my wedding. Ha ha ha."

I was unreasonably put off by this. Aside from people laughing at their own jokes when they're not funny,* my reasons for being bothered were twofold:

1. Typically, it costs more money to host someone at your wedding than the price of the gift you get them (I'm totally cheap: they're getting a washcloth. Maybe a handtowel.)

2. I'm sensitive.

Following my sneer in Annoying's direction, I expanded the subject to weddings in general, saying that I want all my family and friends at mine. They were all, that's a little expensive, you know, do your parents know this?

I explained that I want to get married at my parents' farm, a place perfectly supplied with fruit trees and fully stocked with trout in the pond; making it a self-serve kind of thing. A subsistence wedding, if you will. Or, to make it fancy, all I have to do is provide massive amounts of macaroni and cheese to augment the apples and Rainbows and call it a day. There will, of course, be BOXES and BOXES of Franzia--blush AND white. No one can actually complain with such sweet, sweet wine flowing.

Hearing this, they seemed appeased that my wedding guests would indeed be satisfied. Come to think of it, I don't think I even mentioned the wine. Here's what else I didn't mention:

1. My wedding song, which will be Eternal Flame by The Bangles

2. My bride's maids' dresses, which will be the tacky 110% polyester mini-dresses I used to wear in college and still have hanging in my closet just for the occasion

3. My tiara, whose sparkle and shine will require protective eyewear on the parts of my guests

4. The wedding dance with my new spouse will be, naturally, to our wedding song, Eternal Flame. For the duration of the song, the bride's maids are to surround us, linking arms and swaying along with the music. They are also to hold lighters in their right hands to symbolize the eternal flame of our love. This will require great balance on their part (aka, easy on the Franzia, ladies!) lest the polyester dresses burst into flames, potentially causing eternal damage to one or more bride's maids (NOT something I'm trying to deal with in the middle of my reception, thank you very much).

5. The footwear: barefoot, on grass.

6. The dress: something in the neighborhood of white, to feign that I am somewhere in the neighborhood of virgin. Heh.

7. The spouse: TBD, most likely a man (for several years I imagined it would be a woman), preferably a goofy one to appreciate all of the above.

8. The guests: As I said, as many family and friends as possible. I mean, how fun is it to have everyone you love all in one place, all celebrating love?

Ahh, love. Ahh, tiaras.

*I always laugh at my own jokes, but that's okay: they're all hilarious.

My iTunes calls it With Love and Squalor

2006-06-19T11:01:00.000-07:00

I like the new We Are Scientists album. I think. I mean, I know I like the music and recommend you give it a listen; it's just that I'm fuzzy on the details. That is, I don't know if it's "the new one" or even "their first one." I really think of it as the plain silver CD with We Are Scientists written on it with a Sharpie pen in my friend Kathleen's handwriting. And I like it all the same.

I have no details about this band, but everytime I look over at the CD (when not in play) and see the Sharpied-in name, I read it, like a sentence. We are scientists. And everytime I do, my mind goes immediately to the song, "I Am A Scientist" by Guided By Voices--one of the finest songs of our time. And then, still glancing at the CD, I think, I bet that's where they got their name. And then I think, How do you know? It could be that they are actually scientists.

Every time. I think this every time. Perhaps it's time to get a sleeve for the CD and put it safely in the desk drawer. Otherwise, I'm not gonna get a lick done at work.

Too bad there's not a super easy way to find out something, ANYTHING, about this mystery band. Certainly it's nothing I can tackle while sitting in front of my high-speed-internet-enabled computer.

Tribute to a flash in the pan

2006-06-15T17:16:00.000-07:00

By the time senior year of college rolled around, I found myself living with the fabulous Lo (not to be confused with the less fabulous J. Lo) and wonderful Wynne. Wynne and I had been bff's since freshman year of high school and Lo (and fabulous others:) came around freshman year of college. We moved into a cute little yellow house on Harding, strategically close to our fave bar, The Cellar. Our place had a nice little yard and a porch swing. It was very cute and sweet. Upkeep not being our college-town landlord's bag, it was also so run down that only not-very-picky 21 year olds would have lived there. Enter us: not-very-picky 21 year olds.

Looking back, it's a good thing that the hardwood floors were kind of crappy and the kitchen linoleum was worn. Otherwise, we may have felt bad about having a huge party right after we moved in. We had bands playing in the basement, a keg in the kitchen and people everywhere. It was a FUN party. Bands were playing NAKED. People were rocking out, people were laughing, people were outside on the porch swing, enjoying the beautiful Virginia summer night.

Most of the people there were friends. Our friends from school, maybe a few locals, and of course the two skinheads I'd befriended earlier in the summer, Jason and Chris. You'd think being skinheads, they'd be named Killer and Yaywhitepeople or something like that. You'd also think they'd have no hair. But they were former skinheads, you see, and so had hair and, as for the names, well, I guess they were just uninventive.

As a superfeminist superprogressive Women's Studies minor, you can imagine I was a bit conflicted about hanging out with these two 6'4" muscular tattooed guys. I was conflicted about it. Truly. But, this: it was all so convenient. I met them when they moved into the apartment below me (before the move to the little yellow house). I was on the balcony smoking a cigarette and saw them moving their very few belongings in. In a rare bold move, I yelled down to see if they'd like some wine. They were quite game. Seeing hair, I never would have suspected that they were skinheads. They'd just moved up from Florida and chose Blacksburg because Chris' brother played football for the Hokies. They also chose to move to get off of heroin once and for all. They were clean at least that summer. I know because I hung out with them. Every day. I mean, not only did they live right there, but they also had about as much time on their hands as I did: TONS.

We'd go to Ton 80 every night and get pitchers of black and tan and shoot pool. Every night. We'd watch Oprah. They'd tell these wildly exaggerated stories wherein they were the heroes. Some of the stories were funny and others I found terrible and offensive. And told them so. They were loud and caused trouble and I witnessed it all. The cops didn't like them--and even came to my house one night to tell us to shut the hell up. The nighbor who called them on us came by the next day and wondered what happened to me, "You used to be so quiet and respectful. What's going on?" I could only lamely shrug and apologize to him, leaving me to wonder why and what, in fact, had changed? Why did I hang out with these guys? Well, they were funny, which is about the only requirement I had. More so, though, they were exciting and dangerous and super hot. I had a thing for Jason. A big thing. He, I'm pretty sure, had a thing for me, too. A small thing (ha ha), but a thing nonetheless.

Good thing his sort-of-still-but-mostly-ex-girlfriend of four years who lived four short hours away never found out about us (did I mention we had a thing?); she'd have kicked my ass. I'm not saying this for drama. I am saying this because, when she came to visit Jason for what I think was weeks, she kicked other people's asses. At our fun party with naked bands playing at our cute little yellow house with the cute little porch swing.

Her name was Candy (no lie) and I was (rightfully) scared of her. She talked a lot of smack and knew that my friend M "loved" Jason and wanted to beat her up because of it. She ended up punching my friend K instead--who just happened to be the wrong place at the wrong time at the party. K, I am proud to say, punched her right back. And then the boyfriends got involved. B and Jason were pummeling each other in no time in our cute little front yard. Jason called to Chris to jump in and help him. Candy was yelling and egging it on, K was crying and wanting it to stop--like all of us.

I recall it stopping as abruptly as it began. Jason, Chris and Candy left. We then convened to the upstairs with K and B and a lot of us, really, to kind of sit for a minute, wipe some tears, talk some smack. I was full of apology for all the badness I had brought in. [Sorry K and B.] But the ex-junkie/ex-skinhead crew was now gone and tears dried up and the whole time the party continued. I think we all returned to it. I did.

In the kitchen later that night (party still in full swing), a tall blond punk rock kid came in for a beer. I was cleaning idly (I think) and we got to talking. Nice guy, in college like me, a year or two younger, jeans, jacket with pins in it, blue eyes. Very kind. We talked about school for a minute and music for much much longer. Then we started kissing and he stayed over and we were psyched about each other. We stayed in bed until 5:00 the next afternoon, just hanging out, recovering from the drink and lack of sleep and feeling all cozy and comfy and excited--apparently leaving Lo and Wynne to clean up the party mess. [Sorry Lo and Wynne.]

Turns out my little punk rock pal was an engineering student and was doing an internship two hours away for the semester; he was just in town for the weekend for fun. He stayed over again that night and I woke up with him at 5:00 the next morning, sending him off with a thermos of hot coffee. This was pseudo-before-email. We exchanged addresses and wrote letters. I visited him. He visited me.

This didn't last long but it was sweet and I have fond memories. He was a nice college boy after a summer of skinheads. The skinheads who beat women. A few days after that party, Candy came over crying immediately following a fight she and Jason had. He hit her (again, like always). The police were called by his neighbors. She left, coming to the little yellow scene of the fight she'd caused with another woman. A fairer fight. [Right.] Except it was all unfair and now she was here pleading with me to let him know that she didn't call the cops and she wasn't mad anymore and it was all okay. [Right.] [Witness the crux of my summer-long conflict...lifted now by my curtailed contact with them and new contact with a blue-eyed punk rock boy.]

I thought the best thing about him was his introduction of Descendents to me. Writing this now, I guess this is.

Madelyn, here's your fricking blog already

2006-06-13T16:03:00.000-07:00

One of my friends--who has a FANTASTIC singing voice--went to Nashville this weekend to work on her music. She recorded four songs with a full band in the back. Guess who's full band it was? Dolly Parton's! OMG.

I had a dream about Dolly Parton once. We were in an elevator at Dollywood (going down, heh heh. (kidding!)). Anyway, we were in the elevator together--just the two of us--and I was so so starstruck and wanted to talk to her and couldn't and was all freaked out. Elevators can be very very small--especially in the presence of greatness.

Speaking of greatness, I think that is what I will achieve someday. As soon as I get around to it...

...right now I'm too busy workin' 9 to 5.

The kindness of strangers, aka the new "going postal"

2006-06-06T12:37:00.000-07:00

I love love love Post Secret. I read it every week and have since (I think) its inception.

This postcard is my favorite ever. It is the most touching thing.

Back with the snark another time.

Here I sit, broken-hearted

2006-05-19T12:17:00.000-07:00

I am currently experiencing the annoying sensation of having to poop without the ability to take care of business. I do, in fact, have the physical ability to poop (natch), but circumstances are such that I am denied the promise of poop.

The first time I leave my desk to go to the bathroom, someone else is grabbing one of the bathroom keys to go (and who wants an audience in these situations?). Strike one.

I wait some minutes and then try again. Both bathroom keys are nestled in their little basket by our office’s exit. So far so good. Per usual practice when Number Two is involved, I should have taken both keys to ensure some privacy. Alas, I do not…which, it turns out, doesn’t even matter because when I get to the bathroom someone is already in one of the three stalls—the prized stall, no less. I couldn’t take the second-best stall in the middle because it is not cool to park it right next to someone when there’s another stall further away. So I go in the third stall against my will. It is the handicapped stall, which I really hate using because what if someone in a wheelchair (literally) rolls up? Then you’re an asshole—a lesson I’ve learned.

So I sit in the Forbidden Stall and wait for the woman in the Coveted Stall to finish up and get the hell out. I do the little peek-under-the-door, thinking it could be someone I don't know, and if ya gotta go, ya gotta go. The shoes, though, are those of a colleague. Stymied! (In the case of colleagues in the bathroom, when ya gotta go, ya gotta hold it anyway. (Seeing the colleagues shoes sadly reminds me that there are THREE keys and not just two that live in that little basket by our office’s exit.) I wait. She’s just wiping and wiping and wiping FOREVER. I try to think about what she could possibly need to be wiping so much for until I (very quickly) realize that that’s not something I want to think about. Defeated, I get up and leave, cursing her the whole time. Strike Two.

Walking down the hall back to the office, another colleague has the third key in her hand. Third as in Strike Three.

They say that writing helps you get out what you need to.

I disagree.

Open up and say ahh!

2006-05-04T14:11:00.000-07:00

After moving, dog training, stress about work, working, buying things for the new apartment, not being near the beach and not having cable or internet at my house (yet!); I am going to take a three-hour yoga class on Sunday. It is taught by my favorite yoga teacher and I plan on breathing and stretching and relaxing, holding poses and opening up. I expect to leave limber, renewed, and not unlike a just-relieved-of-duty bungee cord.

Meet the Barkers

2006-05-03T16:39:00.000-07:00

One thing I’ve enjoyed about the dogs I’ve had the pleasure of owning in the past (craziness and aggression aside) is their love of other dogs. Upon seeing dogs on the street, they’d wag their tails and begin to pull the leash towards the little doggy friend in an attempt to get a good sniff. Not so with Timmy and Shorty. Especially Shorty. Perhaps his 7 lbs does not make him feel secure enough to not bark, but, whatever the reason…he barks. If given the chance, he gets up in the other dogs face and barks right in his face, which was observed recently in the old neighborhood by my Semi Famous Actor Former Neighbor Formerly Known As Semi Famous Actor Neighbor (or SFAFNFKASFAN for short). In fact, when we tried to introduce Timmy and Shorty to his well-behaved but undeniably much much larger Shepherd-mix, Coby, Shorty was up on his hind legs and angrily barking in his face, to which SFAFNFKASFAN said in disbelief, “He’s barking IN HIS FACE.” I awkwardly apologized, feeling terrible and embarrassed about my youngest’s behavior. Timmy had calmed a bit by that time and, eventually, Shorty calmed down enough to get around to smell Coby’s butt and then, of course, all was well: tails wagging, excited jumping, the whole nine. SFAFNFKASFAN suggested we do this a little bit every day so they feel more comfortable with each other. I felt lucky that SFAFNFKASFAN was so laid back about it. Otherwise, the entire four more days I lived next door to him would have been SHEER HELL. Just kidding.

But SFAFNFKASFAN and I never ran into each other again in the presence of our dogs, so when I saw him the few more times in passing, I was left to be awkward all on my own devices—I should mention that he’s like illegally good-looking—sans the bark-a-thon soundtrack.

Now the soundtrack-makers and I are in a whole new nabe in a huge building complex that allows dogs which means that there’s plenty of opportunity to piss off a whole new group of neighbors. Ruff!

I have taken to using a water bottle to curb the barking. This has had some success—especially with the less impassioned waterphobe Timmy. This practice of Spraying The Barker inevitably leads to us returning home and Shorty wiping his soaking wet head all over the carpet. Not a quick study, that one.

All that aside—and hopefully there will be some end to barking in sight—I really love them both. They take a lot of time and the training seems to be progressing slowly and/or going backwards, causing them to be worse, but it’s all worth it because they are very cute and funny and fun.

Due to a fabulous move-in special, I am fortunate enough to have the new apartment to myself for a month before needing to get a roommate. So it’s been me and the dogs. I am enjoying living alone but think having people to talk to at the end of the day might be a nice addition to my new living situation. Don’t get me wrong, I talk and talk and talk all day long to the dogs, but the discussions never get much further than No and Cute and Good boy and I love you and Bad Dog! Only mommy pees in the house! and Who’s hungry?

All this utilitarian talk gets tiresome, so I have found I’ve mixed it up a little by giving them each lots of nicknames:

Timmy, a.k.a:

Timbo
Timbot
Timbolina
Timobotronic
Puppy dog
Puppy dup
Bucka [as in Buckaroo but the roo part never comes into play]

Shorty, a.k.a.:

Shortstop
Kiddo
Kiddoodle
Puppy
Shortstop
Shortstop
Shortstop
[skipping over the Sureshot and straight onto:]
Because-you-can’t-you-won’t-and-you-don’t-stop

Just like SFAFNFKASFAN’s good looks might be illegal, the way Shortstop wags his whole body and raises his entire front legs to run up to you to say hi might be, too. Same with the way Timbot insists on licking your face because he loves you so much for feeding him/coming home/letting him sit in your lap.

Who needs a sportsbra when your boobs are little, anyway?

2006-04-28T17:32:00.000-07:00

I am about to leave my job and go home (in Cute Sundress #2) and load boxes into my car, taking trips to the new place(!) to ease the furniture move tomorrow. I wonder if I can pack and carry boxes for hours on end in my sundress. Who knows? I am going to give it a whirl, however, so Super Cute Neighbor sees how I'm all woman, all the time--even when flexing my giant biceps to carry heavy loads of pretty clothes and fancy frilly pillows.

I'm soooo girly. Ask anyone.

Homelessness may be sad, but my new sundress is happy

2006-04-18T15:28:00.000-07:00

It is important to me to let all you fine readers know that apartment searching in LA sucks. Especially when you have two dogs. Even though—put together—they still only equal one small dog. Thus, the search for a place to hang my leashes continues. I’ve never had this hard a time trying to find a place. Makes a gal wonder if she’s supposed to stay in LA at all—which I certainly hope so because I just got some very cute sundresses that look really good next to the Pacific.

Incidentally, my neighbor looks really good, too. He’s sooo cute and I keep having this fantasy that, when my moving truck pulls up, he’ll run out of his house, desperate to ask me out before he loses the chance. What happens next is one of two versions. In the first one, I say, I’d love to go out. Luckily I’m only moving a block away into the two bedroom, two bath duplex with fireplace, parking and laundry. In the other fantasy, I say, I’d love to go out, but due to the extremely unwelcoming nature of apartment-searching in this city, I have been forced to give up, quit my job, and move back in with my parents in Virginia. Yes, I’m 31, why do you ask?

Clearly the first fantasy’s looking a little better than the second—though I have to say I love few places more than my parents’ mountainside farm.

So the housing search has become a bit distressing—hence the new sundresses, which I am so glad I got. I am wearing one of them today, a little colonial blue number from Urban Outfitters with tie top straps, semi-fitted to the waist and then swishes down to my knees. So fun! Especially fun was the fact that when I went out to my car to go to work, my other neighbor—a somewhat famous actor in the teen realm—was walking two dogs, one on the leash and one off. The one off-leash is this ridiculously cute little black puffball who was running around behind my car. Meanwhile, Somewhat Famous Actor Neighbor (or “SFAN” to make it easier) had called to Super Cute Neighbor (or “SCN”—again, for ease) to come out of his house and they were talking like ten feet away from me (!). SADLY, I had to interrupt to ask Somewhat Famous Actor Neighbor to call his little dog away, because I didn’t want to hit him and that he (the dog) was cute. SFAN—who I’ve hardly seen and never talked to—smiles and says, “Only because he’s cute, though. Otherwise you wouldn’t mind hitting him, right?” I laugh and have nothing smooth to say back, which apparently is fine because then he tugs on the leash of the other dog and adds, “Here, you can put this one behind your car.” Ha ha. He’s funny and the whole time I’m thinking about Super Cute Neighbor who’s watching the whole thing and I’m all shy and thinking that I’d really like to be talking to him. So I look at him and he’s all smiley looking at me. I smile back and it’s all very special. Sigh.

I get into my car (Grandpa, now named Papaw in order to more accurately honor my grandpa, Papaw, proper—and props to mom and pop for driving him out to me). Anyway, I get in my car (you’ll never hear me say So, I get into Papaw… omg blech!). Aaaaaannnyway, I get in to drive away and Super Cute Neighbor is still looking at me. I leave for work with a smile on my face: potential homelessness and mounting debt be damned, I have a cute dress on with my hair in a tasteful sidepony and a movie star hitting on me in front of a crush.

Typical springtime urge

2006-04-03T16:48:00.000-07:00

I feel very very strongly that, on this Second Day of Daylight Savings when Spring is in the air, as well as light--and the lightness/anticipation/excitement of the newness of the season that comes with such extended daylight--that it would be far better to be drinking beer from a keg cup in a parking lot prior to a Dead Show than sitting here at my desk blasting Eyes of the World.

Such a bummer to have an inch you can't possibly scratch.

Maybe I should seek out jam bands? Probably not.

Goodbye Blaine...Hello Grandpa, Shorty, Timmy & Silverlake?

2006-04-02T23:33:00.000-07:00

My mom talks to her mom (my grandma, Big Mom) every Saturday morning. Big Mom and Papaw live in Florida--you know, next to all of your grandmas and grandpas. Papaw's had some health problems in the past year and my mom's spent quite a bit of time--weeks and weeks at a time--in Florida to help them out--driving him to appointments or, when he was in the hospital, driving Big Mom to him and generally keeping them company, being a support. I thought he was doing better, so was disturbed when my mom called me early one Saturday morning.

"I hope I didn't call you too early. I just got off the phone with Big Mom."

Hardly awake. Oh God, Papaw. Something's happened to Papaw. "No, I'm awake. Is everything okay?" I winced to imagine her response.

"They want to give you Papaw's car."

Silence. Disbelief. My mom continued.

"I told Big Mom about you being rear-ended. She turned to Papaw and said 'Emily's been in an accident and it wasn't her fault, can we giver her the car?'"

More silence, disbelief, and heaping doses of relief: Papaw was okay and no more worrying about impending car payments.

As it turns out, Papaw doesn't drive anymore. His car had become unnecessary and they were planning on giving it away anyway.

There are no accidents.

I got off the phone with my mom, called Big Mom, tried to express the gratitude I felt. Still feel.

My parents are now in Florida. They are retired and fabulous and were totally game for flying down to get the car, drive it cross-country, visit with me and then fly home. Now that's a pretty worthy use of insurance money. That, and the brand new massage table that is sitting in the back seat of Blaine.

Blaine. He's still here (sigh) and still the greatest vehicle I'll likely ever drive, but that he'll be replaced by a fairly late model Mazda Millenia also with leather seats and a moonroof certainly isn't too shabby. And that it is a gift from my grandparents makes it all the better. So, though Nancy will be missed (RIP) and Blaine will be missed to such a painful extent I'm not prepared to deal with just yet, I will now have Grandpa.

Before announcing the other fairly major changes that are afoot here at Camp Starpower, I'd like to send out a great big thanks to all you fine folks for weighing in with your great advice. Truly. It means a lot. I'm just thankful that it was all useless--in the best way possible.

Okay. Other Changes Afoot:

Some months ago, my drunk roommate suggested that I get a dog. She was all, "No seriously! Dogs are allowed in this building and I LOVE dogs. But it could be yours and I'd totally help out, I just don't want the responsibility of owning one."

It got me thinking. I've had dogs before. I love dogs. I missed having one. The next day, she and I looked on Petfinder.com for possible dogs. Window shopping, really, nothing serious.

About a month later I started to really want a dog. I mentioned it to my roommate. She looked at me, blank. "Really? A dog? Here?"

"Uh, yeah. Remember?"

Her blank persisted so I did not. Though I did begin to be a little freaked out about her.

By this point, I'd told most people I knew here that I really wanted a dog. Not a puppy, but a nice, trained adult who just needed a new home. Plug and play. Ready to wear.

After this weird exchange with my roommate, though, I begged off. I could only imagine too clearly her "helping out" one day and letting the dog run away or get hit by a car with some weak, 'Oh it's not supposed to be off the leash?'

Then, about three weeks ago, I got an email from my massage therapy school teacher asking if I was still looking for a dog. Her friend's mom owns a dog grooming shop in the South Bay and routinely takes in/finds dogs needing homes. She currenlty had two Chihuahua mixes.

So one--Timmy--is actually a Chihuahua mix. At fifteen pounds, he looks exactly like a Chihuahua, but augmented to be two times bigger. Like an LA boob.

The other one is Shorty and he may be more of a Toy Fox Terrier/Dachsund mix. Who the hell knows? He's only about a year, so will require some training. We've got a little toughy attitude to get through, though mostly he's very sweet. And Timmy's a lump of sugar. He just wants to sit in your lap, lick your face and play. Shorty, though, he wants to rule the world. And sit in your lap and play. And pee on things.

Needless to say, I am a sucker and getting them both. Are they brothers? No. Did they come to the grooming shop together? No. Have they bonded since they've been there and sleep in the same crate and feel more comforatble with each other around? Yes. Do I love them both and do they both love me? Yes. Will it be better for them to be at home together while I'm at work all day? Yes. Did my roommate give the same blank look when I let her know that I'd like to go meet the dogs? Yes. When I asked her if it'd be okay to have a dog here, did she say it would be? Yes. All gajillion (3) times I asked her? Yes. Did I sense that she wasn't actually that comfortable with it but pretended that she was because it suited me? Yes. Did she keep saying that it was okay and that she was comfortable with the idea, making my delusion that much easier to facilitate? Yes, yes, yes. Did I use this permission to visit the dogs a couple of times and tell my new dog groomer friends that it's on and I will, in fact, get one or both dogs? Yes. Did my roommate--seeing that this dog-adoption business was reality and not blah blah--then FINALLY come clean and tell that she was, in fact, not that comfortable with the idea after all? You bet. Do I want the blank-looked wet noodle to help me watch these vulnerable little pooches? Hells no.

And so the apartment search began. All while Timmy and Shorty wait patiently at the dog groomers in the South Bay, which means many drives down there for me for visits and lots of gratitude to the fine folks at Pup-E-Tails (2050 Artesia Blvd, Torrance 90504, 310-329-9344) for their willingness to watch, feed, deworm, vaccinate and neuter them in the meantime. I only wish these dogs were hairier so I could give the groomers lots of business for years to come.

Sooo, the search for a dog-allowed apartment by the beach with washer/dryer and parking has devolved into a dog-allowed two bedroom in Silverlake for cheap rent and no real amenities, but a hardwood floor in the living room and a big square kitchen with a corner window. (And the hottest landlord ever. Whoa.)

I am still looking in Venice/Marina del Rey, but it occurs to me that--between crazy landlords and crazy roommates--that I haven't had the greatest luck around these parts and that maybe life away from the ocean could be a little sweeter. Who knows?

Of course today was bright and sunny and I went to the beach twice and went to the new board shop in the nabe and got a super cute t-shirt made from bamboo and flirted back with the cashier fella and walked out with the new tight blue t-shirt on, shedding the boxy black turtleneck sweater I'd been wearing, thinking it would be cool, but no, no of course it's gorgeous and warm right when I get comfortable with the idea of life away from the ocean.

So, the living situation, that's still an issue. But the good news is I have a mom, a dad, and Grandpa on the way, several possible apartments in great parts of town that are great contenders to be homes to me and a random (hopefully not crazy) roommate and--yay!--my! new! dogs! Timmy and Shorty.

Perhaps, best of all, I can start writing in this joint more regularly again. And said writing can be concerned not with Starpower's Marathon O'Change, but with things more pertinent to your own lives, like Starpower's Gummy Children's Vitamin Review. Stay tuned folks.

Starpower asks her wise readers for guidance

2006-03-20T20:45:00.000-08:00

My days with Blaine (shiny black Mercedes) may be prematurely over. My insurance company called today to let me know the expected (though sad) news that Nancy is, in fact, totaled. And they'll give me a check for her worth, minus the five hundred dollar deductible. Turns out, her worth isn't all that high.

Clearly, my insurance company doesn't measure in love.

What's worse, they said that once an agreement is reached (as in you nod when they tell you it's totaled), that they only cover the rental car for five more days. As in, the check for your totaled car is not cut, signed, sent, and in your hand...no. The countdown of Operation Screw You We're Taking Blaine Back is underway once they hang up the phone. Despite your protestations that five days really isn't enough time to make the second biggest purchase of your life. Too bad.

Well, I'm not really going to go for that. It's ridiculously unfair and just plain impossible to get a car in that time. Only slightly less impossible is living in Los Angeles without a car at all.

And something tells me that the new car I'll get won't be a Mercedes. It's difficult to convey how sad that is. I've only been with Blaine for four days, but our love is deep, real. How I hate to let him go.

So, my friends, I could use some advice. I called the insurance company back and told them that I just need more time with the car and I am not sure I'll just sign off on the Nancy's y totaled, junk her nonsense. I also have legal insurance and know that I can get some legal counsel if need be.

So, do I accept that Nancy's totaled and try to replace her with the five grand from my insurance company? True, that's a super nice downpayment, but I didn't have a car payment previously and cannot necessarily afford one now. Payments would be regular and the car would be reliable.

Do I accept Nancy's totaled (truthfully, I might not have much choice about this) and use the five grand for a shitty used car? There may not be a regular payment but there may be intermittent repair costs of varying amounts.

Do I try to go for some lease to own option?

Do I need to get lawyers involved to pressure my insurance company to cover Blaine's rental for longer--or get them to get Dingbat to cover it?

I'm at a loss, folks. PLEASE leave comments with any ideas you've got.

Kisses.

My silver lining is shiny black with leather interior

2006-03-16T21:04:00.000-08:00

Yesterday qualifies as one the top ten lamest days in my life ever. I woke up feeling good and was going to go to the beach and do tai chi before work. I got dressed, noticed the time, and realized that I had two choices:

1. Go to the beach and do tai chi anyway, timeliness be damned

2. Go to work on time so I can leave on time, which would allow me to do tai chi in the daylight that will surely remain when I get back home

Being super responsible, I chose the latter option. I set off for work in my trusty car, Nancy. A short distance from my house, I noticed the driver behind me. Mid-thirties or so, blond hair, and laughing with a kid in the front seat (illegal in this state) next to her. There was a teeny little dog perched on the top of the back seat and an even littler bobble-head dog stuck to the front dash. But the woman was the one who had my attention the most, something about her just stuck to me. She seemed nice and it was apparent she was having fun hanging out with her kid, all leaning down and getting in her daughter's face playfully. But she also had a sort of chaos about her, an all-over-the-place-ness that made me a little uneasy. The thought: She seems fun and all, but there's no way that woman pays her bills on time popped into my head. I don't often pick apart my fellow motorists, but I just kept watching in my rear view mirror and wondering about her. As my massage therapy pals would say, I was very tuned in to her energy. And I'm glad I was so tuned in to her; it made me way less surprised when she plowed into the back of me less than three minutes later.

About six weeks ago, I was rear-ended. It was no big deal. The guy got out and apologized--in a smarmy, not-very-sorry sort of way, but he apologized--and no real damage was done. We drove off and he almost cut me off making an illegal pass on the left. I was (highly) annoyed but continued on my way.

Yesterday's rear-ending was way different. I felt my car and my body pushed forward and saw the left lens of my glasses shatter. When the movement stopped, I checked my glasses. They were fine, not shattered. My windshield wasn't either. Good. Weird that I thought it happened, but good that it didn't.

I get out and approach Dingbat's car. She's busy comforting her screaming child. I stand off for a minute, hear honking and someone calling my name. I look across the intersection and my roommate is there, yelling that she saw the whole thing. Again: weird, but good. Very good. I wave her over and then notice an SUV stopped in front of me, the driver outside of it looking at me. I had no idea I'd been pushed into the car in front of me and went over to her, apologizing and pointing to the car behind me to establish that she knew it was clearly not my fault. She did and was super cool about it. She got my name and number and took off to get her kid to a field trip.

On my way back to Dingbat's f'ed up car, I notice Nancy. Sweet, sweet Nancy is f'ed up, too. Damage to the front and rear: bent-in hood, torn grill, torn license plate, damaged front bumper, rear bumper hanging on by a thread. Not really drivable. Not without losing a bumper, anyway.

I get to Dingbat's car and ask for her information. She shoos me away, saying she's on the phone. 'Are you serious?!' I was PISSED.
'I'm calling the police.' (lie.)

Much of our communication goes like this. I show bald hatred of her, she smiles and tells me she's inconvenienced too and that, not to worry, because she's honest. (Great, now I know she's a liar, for sure.) I was shocked when she gave me a policy number from a reputable insurance company--or that she had insurance at all.

As luck would have it, a police officer happened to be driving by (was not called) and stopped to help out, which he did. Dingbat gave me all her information and I gave her mine and drove off asap. How she drove with her engine smashed up against her windshield, leaving behind leaked radiator fluid on the road, is beyond me. Why she did it with her kid and dog in the car with her is something I am going to go ahead and judge, judge, judge her for. That's right and when I am through judging her, I just might turn around and judge some more. Why? I kinda hate her. Why? Let me tell you about the rest of the day...

So, she leaves the scene, leaving only my witness-roommate, the friendly officer, my wrecked car, and me. Roommate has to go to work, takes off. Officer calls a tow truck for me, I call work and my car insurance company. They tell me about autobody shops they partner with. The tow truck arrives. My roommate calls back, her meeting was postponed and she comes back to give me a ride from the body shop. (It is all more tedious, complicated, and time-comsuming than this but the story's already delving into and/or swimming in boring as it is...)

The body shop seems super competent and understanding. During the assessment, I point out to them that my car was hit so hard that the back seats were thrown forward, exposing the contents of the trunk. The assessor nodded. I told him I was showing him that, really, just to be dramatic. He laughed. Then I told my roommate that my neck and hands, that had vaguely hurt earlier, were really beginning to hurt. The assessor heard this and cut in saying not to fall asleep, just in case of concussion. That kind of drama--the kind not used for comedic effect--is really just not as fun.

Roommate drives me home, heads off to work. I thank her profusely, go inside and--with the adrenaline now gone--the pain, woosiness and nausea set in. My brain felt rattled, my head was literally and figuratively spinning and my thinking was generally slow. My folks convinced me that a doctor visit should happen. So much for working from home the rest of the day.

Even if I had a car, no one could have made me drive it. I took a cab to an urgent care center. While being woozy in the waiting room, I got a phone call. I didn't recognize the number and let the VM get it. I checked it: Dingbat.

'He-e-ey, this is Dingbat, the woman who (chuckle) bumped into you this morning. A fun way to make friends. (chuckle) Anyway, I was calling to see if we could settle this without involving our insurance companies...maybe I can just give you cash...this is best for both of us...for me, anyway...'

This message. Sitting in urgent care, woozy, unable to work, I Love Lucy too loud in the background, millions of other people ahead of me to be seen. This f'in message from that f'in woman. Hatred, I tell you.

But then I was too tired. I was at the urgent care center for eight hours, waiting in one place or another for roughly six of them. And then they sent me by ambulance to an ER for an abnormally low heart rate--but not before getting x-rays, and EKG, the heart monitoring, blood-taking, and, naturally a CAT scan of my brain (yipes). Aside from whiplash and the low heart rate, all was fine. Still they thought it best to send me to an ER to wait in a bed for four more hours--only there I was in a room with three beds and the woman in the bed next to mine was roughly 1,009 years old, extremely disoriented, scared, and screaming every five minutes at the hospital staff, ripping out her IVs, only to yell at staff again as they put it back in, and demanding repeatedly to be taken back to the hospital. And moaning and crying for God to have mercy on her soul. And the doctor got so annoyed with her that he called her a 'goddamn woman.' I believe it was a county hospital.

After much pleading, the doctor finally came to see me. He shrugged, said I was healthy and asked why I was even brought there in the first place. I guess to worry my mother, listen to Madame Dementia and go even longer on the fifty calories of food I'd had to eat all day. Awesome.

But it all gets better.

One of fave friends here came to pick me up--at 1:30 in the morning. That's true kindness. Like with my roommate earlier, I was very thankful. I slept at my friend's house, cuddling with her little dogs, sleeping in and taking it super easy today. No going-to-the-office for this gal. Just a nice walk home with a stop at a great local coffee shop for a decaf soy latte and egg and cheese croissant and pumpkin bread. With a full belly, I continued home, walking along the beach for part of the way. I called some loved ones and then work. Did some work. Showered, laid in the bath, shaved my legs, dealt with insurance stuff and then called about getting a rental. They picked me up. Out of the 1,000 times I've rented cars, this is the first time they actually came to get me. Yay!

I went in firmly expecting to drive out in a beige Geo. After all, I've driven them off rental lots before and they're actually not so bad. I let the agent know that I should probably go for as cheap a car as possible since I don't know how long Nancy'll get worked on. She let me know that it's use-or-lose money, so I may as well go for the full $50.00 per day. When she told me this, we were standing in front of a Mercedes and a BMW. Jokingly, I was like "Really? Well then, what do these babies go for?"

On the ride over to the rental place, I got a call from the body shop: Nancy's looking at more than five grand in damage. Immediately after we hung up, my insurance agent called (spooky) to let me know that Dingbat most likely doesn't have that insurance after all (no surprise). And, now, standing before the fancy cars, the rental car lady just volunteered to give me a free upgrade. No Geo for me this time. THIS time: Mercedes!

Should I feel shallow for being giddy and glowing about getting to drive this super nice car around for the next three weeks? Who cares? After yesterday, this is like a gift. My car's totaled and it's not my fault, my insurance premiums will rise even though it's not my fault, I spent hours of low-grade-yet-boredom-filled trauma at poorly run medical centers, and the nightmare that is Dingbat is likely far from over. So, hell yeah, I am going to enjoy the hell out of this car.

And thanks to the ambulance guys who brought me apple juice. That was a nice little gift, too.

Killin' the Earth with the Lord

2006-03-13T14:42:00.000-08:00

Not everybody feels the same way about things. They prioritize things differently. This much is obvious. Some people like conservation, some drive Hummers. Some value religion, others are Godless heathens (kidding!). Sometimes—to save time—you somewhat erroneously lump things together and think that they belong, like yoga and vegetarianism or gay and Republican. Now I never actually considered the religiosity of the average Hummer driver and if I were to now, I still don’t know what my kneejerk guess would be.

That said, it struck me as odd seeing a sticker across the back window of an H3 that read, “Humming along with Jesus…”

When heterosexual pairings are creepy...aka don't try to picture it

2006-03-05T21:26:00.000-08:00

My parents went to see Brokeback Mountain last night. My mom purportedly lured my dad with the promise of trout fishing. Needless to say he was appalled to discover that the leading men used fishing for brown trout as their ruse to do it in the woods. Brown trout?! When they had pools and pools teeming with native cutthroat trout? He nearly walked out.

The other thing that detracted from his enjoyment of the cowboy love story was that Jake Gyllenhaal reminded him of somebody. He just couldn't shake it and he couldn't figure out who it was. Finally, it hit him: Jake Gyllenhaal looks for all the world like kd lang.

We agreed that Heath and kd would make a far more disturbing couple than Heath and Jake.

Carrie Bradshaw can have her Mr. Big

2006-03-03T23:11:00.000-08:00

I spend a lot of words around this joint on music. True, most of the discussion is about Naughty by Nature, but there's a lot of stuff that I genuinely like--and not just in the ironic way that I like the Maid in Manhattan hoodie I found on the ground at a park after ultimate practice months ago and am wearing right now kind of like. Nope, I mean like like like. That is, check out the gem that is Indie Pop Rocks. May streaming it on iTunes help you maximize the workday.

And if it allows you to think I'm a little bit cooler, well, so much the better. Do your best to remember that for the following tale:

Sometimes when you watch TV and it's nighttime and you're kinda tired and the one teensy glass of wine you had with dinner kicked in with surprising force or at least you hope it did because how else can you explain the slight buzz you decided (in retrospect) that you must have had in order to call and order a product offered on TV? The kind of product that is only offered on TV (or, of course, in the As Seen On TV store in the Mall of America, in our great nation's great upper midsection, Minnesota. Let's hear it for Minnesota! Way to beat the system!) I did not buy a Salsa Master nor did I order a catalog from Pueblo, CO. I bought CDs. Two of them. And "Monster" was in the title. More with the details following some further justification:

I go to my job every weekday and work more than 40 hours a week (like 41, but still...). I go to school 12 additional hours a week and my limited spare time is spent either avoiding homework for said school or feverishly finishing novels so I can remain in good standing at my small fabulous book club.

Somehow, I still manage to find time for my first love: TV. During The Colbert Report, I am at full attention, giggling and (blush) actually blushing because he's sooo smaaaart and sooo cuuuute. Other TV times though, during your Roseannes and your Sabrinas, I fall into the medium happily, mindlessly. I drift away a little. I get swept away in Darlene's misunderstood-black-wearing-writer snark and Salem's troublemaking-punished-warlock-turned-talking-black-cat snark. I let commercials of other re-run shows wash over me, commercials for cell phones, DVD releases, 900 numbers, and then the generic TV ad announcer falls away as e-e-ev'ry ro-o-ose has its thorn just like e-e-ev'ry night has its daaaa-a-a-awn catches hold of my attention, seeps in. I sit transfixed as Poison's greatest song gives way to what a sha-a-ame what happened to ja-a-ane leads into Tesla's love is all around yo-o-uuu love is knockin' outside yr do-o-o-o-o-or-ah eases into ...and smiling next to you in silent lucidity-y. And then, the winner. The one that had me madly punching the number on the screen into my cell phone, grasping for my credit card. The song, that in 11th grade trig class, I made a classmate write all the lyrics of down for me so I could then sing it with all the accuracy and love it deserved, the song that the following year I taped FIRST with great honor so it would be the first track A-side of what became my beloved cheese metal mix, Nelson and Other Favorites. The song, behold:

I'm the one who wants to be with yo-o-o-u-u deep inside I hope you feeeel it's tru-ue waitin on a line of greens and bluu-uh-ues just to be the next to be-e-e with you

Mr. Big. Sigh.

Why I was so obsessed with this song in high school is lost to history, but the love has carried on. As has the remembered story behind the song: the classmate in trig who wrote the lyrics down for me (my "connection") gave me even more goods. She told me that apparently it was written by the lead singer of Mr. Big (whom we'll call "Mr. Big") when he was twelve years old. TWELVE! What twelve year old comes up with waitin on a line of greens and blues? A twelve year old in love, that's who. And not with some pre-teen girl, a woman. According to my connection, circa 1990, Mr. Big was really good friends with a 20 year old woman (I know, he must have been amaaaazing, even as a tween). Anyway, this woman got dumped by her of-age boyfriend and was heartbroken. To Be With You was young Mr. Big's attempt at simultaneously declaring his love for her and letting her know that her ex was a dink. I could provide a line-by-line explication of this, but it would likely interest only me.

Seeing this Mr. Big wonderfulness on late night wholesome television, I knew I had to have this song on CD (clearly I still have it on tape). I triumphantly ordered the 32-track double-disc set of Monster Ballads PLATINUM Edition, knowing that at a mere $26.99 I was the one laughing my way to the bank--paying less than a dollar a song! It got even better when the automated operator informed me that--since I chose the cheap, non-rush delivery option--I'd receive it in 2-4 weeks...long enough to totally forget that I'd ordered it and be psyched about it all over again when it arrived in my mailbox.

Two to four weeks later, I opened my mailbox and was PSYCHED ALL OVER AGAIN to receive my indeed forgotten double-disc set of totally kick ass Monster Ballads. Not only has it been in my car stereo non-stop since, but various tracks will also pop into my head throughout the workday, drowning out Indie Pop Rocks' best attempts to distract me with Bright Eyes and other great bands not singing about nights having dawns and cowboys and their sad sad songs.

She was all "eek!" and I was all "don't hate me because you ain't me."

2006-02-24T00:07:00.000-08:00

I just couldn't go to sleep tonight without telling you guys how good my boobs looked today. It was Day #1 in my new Victoria's Secret unpadded push-up demi-cup bra. My officemate is a sport so she didn't say anything when she looked up and noticed me smiling to myself as I cupped my already beautifully-cupped breasts while sitting at my desk.

The lady who caught me doing it in the bathroom in front of the mirror, however...she was more than a little freaked out. I'm fine with the glaring, but the scream struck me as a touch over the top. I mean, can't a gal fondle herself in public? Shees.

Can $0.99 salve a broken heart?...aka lookin out for what's left of Lachey

2006-02-22T12:05:00.000-08:00

I just feel so darn bad for Nick Lachey--going through a painful break-up with Jessica Simpson (a woman I've always toooootally related to)--that I bought his latest single on iTunes. It's called "What's Left of Me" and I heard about it first from my weekly iTunes update email--the one that tried to give me some yuckiness called "Ooh La La" for free. I listened to 30 throaty disconcerting seconds of ooh's and la's and vehemently declined. That's right--they can't even give that song away it sucked so bad. Had Nick's newest li'l dee been the one for free and had he not been dealing with painful heartbreak--I'm the kind of sucker consumer that celebrity managers and publicists dream of--anyway, if Nick weren't so forlorn right now (poor guy!), I probably would have declined equally as vehemently. Put plainly: his song really sucks.

At least he can keep Tiffany company in my iTunes library.

A li'l Valentine's conversation

2006-02-14T12:18:00.000-08:00

SP: What are you doing here?

C: Move it, you’re in my way!

SP: Wow, I thought you’d be nicer. How can I be in YOUR way? YOU’RE the one crowding me! Do you have to be perched so close to my chair? I’m trying to work here!

C: [Rolls eyes. Sighs.] Mortals.

SP: Look, mister, I don’t who you’re calling “mortal.” I’ll have you know that may nickname since high school has been “Goddess.”

C: And who gave you that nickname?

SP: I hardly think that’s important, shees.

C: You gave it to yourself, didn’t you?

SP: I really can’t remember. Anyway, Goddess here would like you to go away, please. I’m busy.

C: Well, Goddess, I’m not going away. I’ve got a job to do, too, you know.

SP: And what’s that?

C: [Motions to arrow.] Ahem.

SP: What me? With whom? [Pauses, eyes narrow.] Wait a second, I saw Love Potion No. 9 and if you think I’m going to take that arrow—I know it was a potion in that movie, but what does Hollywood know, real…

C: That movie was about scientists making the potion. Mortal scientists.

SP: OOOOH, you’re soooo eternal. You’ve been aliiiiive for like 5,000 yeeeeeaaaars and will be for thousands mooore.

C: I’m actually older than the Earth. And no, no plans to die.

SP: Right. You’re actually about 5 minutes old. As long as I’ve been daydreaming here—don’t smirk! Anyway, if you think I’m going to take that arrow and just fall in love with the next person I see I’ve got to tell you that the next person I’ll see is the 38 year old at the next cubicle. The 38 year old who goes to medieval festivals, doesn’t cut his fingernails, and has a deep and abiding love for his pet rats. I’m fine right here, thanks.

C: So you’ll just choose?

SP: I’ll choose to be no closer to that dude than I have to be.

C: I can’t say that I blame you. He’s not on the docket for another 3 years anyway.

SP: Let me guess. Mail order?

C: Renaissance Festival.

SP: Right, right. With the big-busted wench in the beer garden no doubt. Grode.

C: It’s not always an easy job…

SP: And for me your job is going to be right now? Here at my desk?

C: If you’d zip it, yes.

SP: Well, thanks for the warning, guy! I would have worn my special jeans! The new ones that make me want to do myself!

C: That’s kinda not what it’s about, Goddess.

SP: Fine. But I’ve kinda been waiting a long time for this an…

C: No you haven’t.

SP: What do you mean, No I haven’t? I’m over 30.

C: You’re 31. Relax. That guy’s gonna be 41 before he meets the beer wench. Good call, by the way.

SP: Thanks. I’m like really good at reading other people.

C: Well, you’re flattered easily, that’s for sure.

SP: Thanks! [Pause.] Hey, wait a second! You said I haven’t been waiting a long time. I contest!

C: Of course you do. You always do.

SP: Huh?

C: You always think you want it and are ready for it, but really that’s just the internalization of the love-kooky hearts-and-flowers culture in which you live.

SP: Right, I dated women for 6 years because I internalized the “marriage is between one man and one woman” culture in which I live. [Thinks for a second.] And isn’t love-kooky hearts-and-flowers kind of your bread and butter? You might not want to knock it, pal.

C: Don’t get me started on the pain it is to be misunderstood.

SP: Surely you must have gotten over it by now, lo these many millennia.

C: It only chafes sometimes. And don’t call me Shirley.

SP: [Smiling approvingly.] Well let’s abandon the I-always-contest ship, too, then and get with the me-falling-in-love part.

C: Right-o. Wait--what's with the frown?

SP: Nothing. I mean, I know you’re a professional and all, so please don’t be offended or think that I doubt your abilities, but do you have good taste? Do you know what I like in a mate?

C: I don’t call the shots here, you do.

SP: Okay! I like tall, athletic, supersmart, superfunny, superhandsome, supercaring, superunderstanding, superbrave…

C: That’s, uh, super and all, but it’s not really what I see.

SP: So you see who it is and I have to guess what you see and when I get it right it works?

C: No.

SP: What then, mysteryo?

C: He may be super in one or two ways but certainly not in every single way possible.

SP: Fair enough.

C: So, try again.

SP: I thought this wasn’t a guessing game!

C: I think you know the answer. Let’s have it.

SP: [Pauses.] I guess just someone who loves me.

C: [Smiling, raises arrow, takes aim.] Bull’s eye.

I look so hot in my new jeans that I want to do myself.

2006-02-10T15:00:00.000-08:00

Due to a recent spate of weight loss (“spate” is the wrong word because it has been a steady healthy flow of weight loss. I thought at first it was the “break up diet” and, at first, it partially was due to the end of a relationship. The real reason, though, I have figured out since is that the end of that relationship also meant the end of round-the-clock $1.75 pupusas. Sans pupusa, Starpower is sans lovin’ ass. But she’s also sans jeans that fit.), so—to complete the sentence I began roughly seven sentences ago—I needed me some fitting drawers. Like all purchases of any magnitude, I did it on the fly. Unplanned, spur of the moment, and, in this case, a semi-desperate attempt to get out of the heinousness that has been plaguing my commute home all week. Stupid diverted traffic from stupid construction in this city I wouldn’t dream of saying a bad thing about, ever.

The store is strategically located right on the corner of a major intersection on my drive home. It has parking in front and, on this occasion, an empty space calling my name. It would have been hard to hear it calling my name over the din of cars idling and their loud beats and/or talk radio spilling into the air, but this call was different—like on a different frequency—like angels whispering in my ear, “Come. Shop.” When the light (fiiiiinally) turned green, I found myself steering the car to the right and into the parking lot instead of continuing straight home. Who am I to argue against angels?

I park and enter, passing the snowboard section, the skateboard section, the skate video section, the mountain bike section, the impressive-collection-of-Vans section, a 12 year old skater on the ramp-in-the-middle-of-the-store section (not to be confused with the caged-in half-pipe in the parking lot with several other 12 year olds). At last, I arrive at the lady’s section (it’s totally not the pre-teen girls’ section, shut up!). I lament the lack of actual shoes and abundance of $15 flip flops. I move on to the baby tees and then come across a sweater that is so cute I still feel tempted go back and get it. It’s blue with buttons along one shoulder and on the front it has like an iron-on flower in red and salmon pink and if there’s one thing I love, it’s red and pink together. And if there’s one thing I REALLY love it’s the ashy shade of blue of the sweater itself. The problem? Next to the super cute flower design is a giant fancy Rip Curl logo and some other doodly things. The design in itself isn’t a problem—but that I’m 31 and consider wearing a sweater with said design might be. I mean, it’s cute and all and I’m cute and all but that may be a little too much cute for a woman my age (ugh) to pull off. Or maybe it’s cute and I’m not cute so much as just really sexy and womanly and the sweater’s cuteness may try to undermine the sexy that is ME and, of course, fail miserably (because, come on, nice try). So, with a heavy heart, I returned the sweater to the rack. (Though if you have daughters or nieces who are Degrassi age, let me know—I’ll point you to this great little gift item.)

The jeans. At this point, I ‘m a little gun shy. But, behold: flarier-than-boot-cuts and super-low-rise galores! Complete with wide inseams sewn with red and yellow thread. And thick belt loops. And the perfect shade of dark-but-worn blue. I try them on. If it had eyeballs, my ass would have wept. But I have eyes. Four of them. And they were all really, really happy.

F* the sh y'all!

2006-02-07T10:33:00.000-08:00

First they beat us in manners and now they beat us in rock n' roll. Welcome to the best video ever. Those Canadians know how to do it!

Watch this at work at top volume.

Getting lucky

2006-02-06T11:09:00.000-08:00

I walked to the beach before work this morning and noticed a ladybug on the sweater I was holding. I picked the ladybug up and let it fly away and looked down to notice two more ladybugs on my skirt…and another one on my shirt. And another one struggling in the sand. Then several others also struggling in the sand. I picked up the couple I could reach and put them on my skirt with the others to take them over to the grass on my way back, puzzled at why so many ladybugs would be hanging out so far away from solid ground. The sand was clearly not a medium they were adept at walking on and we (the ladybugs and I) were pretty close to the tide on a big dune.

Had they been cartoony singing bluebirds perched on me it would have been so Cinderella, but they were actual silent ladybugs and I was barefoot on the sand and the waves were blue and white and lazy and quiet and a tern was poking around the edge of the surf and no people were around.

After a time, I walked over the crest of the dune, down the other side across the sand and over to the dirt path. One by one, I removed my little passengers. One chose the ground and the others flew away.

Back to me

2006-02-06T11:06:00.000-08:00

Occasionally, when I lean over to twist the bath faucets on to take a shower, I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. When this happens, I am struck by how toned my lat muscles are. They’re really quite spectacular. I'm awesome.

Coretta and Betty

2006-02-04T19:37:00.000-08:00

We lost two great women this week. It is humbling and inspiring to think of their accomplishments and to consider the undeniable truth that so much virtue and fight can be contained within single human beings. It fills you with pride in being a woman, fills you with gratitude for how these women--these single human beings--improved our world, and fills you with hope that other single human beings can make such an impact--maybe in our time.

It also leaves you with an emptiness, a sadness that they are gone. Thank you, women. Rest.

We'll do our best to take it from here.

My shameful oil addiction

2006-02-01T12:05:00.000-08:00

After hearing our fearless, principled, and revolutionary leader’s comments in the State of the Union address, I must hang my head in shame. I mean, how could I? I am such a bad citizen; here I am living in this city whose design was predicated upon the idea that every single person would have their own car, this city with a laughable public transportation system…and I have the gall to drive my car to work everyday. Why do I do it?

I loves me some oil, people.

But I’m not alone in this. Our president is right. We are a NATION ADDICTED TO OIL. And the poor Bush family has spent decade upon decade trying to feed our nasty habit, trying to keep us happy. They’ve befriended the bin Ladens, they’ve sent us to fight in the Gulf War, they’ve made up stories about WMD (well, maybe this last one’s more about avenging “Daddy”); but you name it, they’ve done it. Whether they’ve been in office or not, they’ve done it. For us. All to feed the monkey on our collective oil-junkie back. Until last night.

Our fool no more, this Bush has had the completely! brand! new! idea! of developing an alternative to our dope. You can imagine how I felt to hear our totally not hypocritical leader discuss the use of alternative fuels made from renewable resources. I was pissed! I’m sorry, but where’s the magic in that? I, like all Americans, am a little less romanced by the idea of operating a vehicle on the power of things that nature can produce time and time again. It hardly has the intrigue, the drama, the excitement of depleting something completely and forever. I mean, Hey, my Prius drives on wood chips! just sounds lame. Not nearly as cool as Hey, my Escalade drives on oil. Yep, OIL!

I want my oil. I am red-blooded American, damn it, and I deserve it. Nothing else will do. I just can’t get enough of the stuff. I’ve tried to kick the habit but every time I do, I find I don’t have the fuel to get to my job to pay my taxes to fund the government to fund the war to fund Haliburton. So, with oil-withdrawal shaky hands, I have to write a personal check to Dick Cheney directly instead and walk (blech) to the mailbox and send it in the mail. What a waste.

She had rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes

2006-01-27T16:44:00.001-08:00

In a rare move, I am taking a survey. I got the survey from my friend's blog (www.fosterity.com). You should check his answers out on his blog--and you should probably read it anyway, since it's hilarious.

My answers are here, in my blog:

1. Of all the bands/artists in your cd/record collection, which one do you own the most albums by?
Grateful Dead, but it’s easy to have tons of their music. Some bands, like Dinosaur Jr, only have so many that you can have. I have many Dinosaur Jr, many Descendents, many Ani Difranco, many Erin McKeown (check her out!), many more of many others. But I also get so attached to specific albums that sometimes I am resistant to buy more by that band, lest it get ruined. Silly, I know, but sometimes I'm scared to love.

2. What was the last song you listened to?
“Sweet Child O’Mine” GNR, dude.

3. What's in your record/CD player right now?
In my car: Descendents Cool to Be You CD (their latest) and Descendents All (old school) in the tape player. These albums may as well be made by two different bands. One is cheesy and indulgent and the other is kick ass and gratifying. Anyone who knows anything about Descendents knows that All is obviously the good one—and compared to their other old stuff, it’s not even that good.
On my iTunes right now: “I Want You” Dylan
At my house: My record player has begun to make an awful noise (via the speakers, so it’s and awful noise in stereo)

4. What song pretty much sums you up?
Either “Scarlet Begonias” by Grateful Dead or “Talk to Me Summer” by Screeching Weasel.

5. What's your favorite local band?
These days, Rilo Kiley. Though I like The Muffs a lot, too, and they can legitimately be said to be from around here, too.

6. What was the last show you attended?
I don’t know if you can call seeing your cousin’s husband play keyboard in a country band fronted by the former Miss Washington State in a bar called “Cowgirl’s Inc” in Seattle (think: poor man’s version of Coyote Ugly) a “show.”

7. What was the greatest show you've ever been to?
The last Dead show I went to: Seattle, Summer1994—I finally got to hear “Scarlet Begonias” live. Sigh. Also:
A previous Dead show: Charlotte, Summer 1992—Mere days before my high school graduation. I went with fellow Pizza Hut workers in a rented Cadillac with my friend Greg driving (I hearted him big time) and a guy named Dallas. We were in the parking lot earlier in the day and talking about what we hoped to hear that night, Greg told me that they probably wouldn’t play “Terrapin Station” (for reasons I can no longer recall, but he knew everything (sigh) so I didn’t question) Anyway, this was the one on a long list of songs I’d mentioned I really wanted to hear—except this was the one I wanted to hear most of all. That night, they played a lot of the songs I’d mentioned—it was a great set and a great show. I was all alone, doing that little hippie girl dance and a new song began. Yep: Second note in, Greg found me—from out of nowhere and hugged me and said in my ear “You got your Terrapin!” Glub glub (that’s my heart, folks). That night we slept next to each other in sleeping bags outside of a hotel parking lot. You know what: I was also going to mention the 1994(?) Phish/DMB show in Lexington, VA where ALL of my college friends and I went (even the punk rock ones) and camped out and something about that night made it all perfect and great; how shocked I was to love that Rush concert in 11th grade (making it one of my faves); the good times that was the Sugarcubes/PIL/New Order show (all in one show!!!) in 9th grade; just how great Violent Femmes are live after all; the first time I was in a mosh pit (Olympia, college, Summer 1994 once again); seeing Rancid before they were big time for the minute they were big time and thinking “Who were they?” in the most revelatory was possible, but I won’t, because THIS show—Charlotte, 1992, with Greg K and Terrapin Station—was my favorite.

8. What's the worst band you've ever seen in concert?
REM, The Green Tour, circa 1990. B-O-R-I-N-G. And if a suburban, always-looking-for-something/anything-fun-to-do 10th grader is saying that—which I was at time—that’s bad.

9. What band do you love musically but hate the members of?
Hmmm, how about this instead: Based on interviews, I can guess that I love Tom Petty. But that still won’t make me buy his music.

10. What is the most musically involved you have ever been?
I tried to play bass for a spell. I wrote a little song and used F and A and G a lot and called it “Effigy.” Because it’s true that saying F and A and G together slowly it spells a word a don’t really like but if you say the letters together really fast, it sounds like a word—a word that kinda described the song better anyway. (This is me being snobby about “my music.” Dig it.) Actually, it turns out that I am not that musical, but I am politically correct.

11. What shows are you looking forward to?
It would be Jenny Lewis (of Rilo Kiley) at the Vista Theatre next week—if it weren’t sold out. Boo. I’m not as good about going to shows as I used to be. Boo again.

12. What is your favorite band shirt?
I don’t really like my Descendents baby doll tee anymore because it shrunk to the point that my whole stomach shows—up to my ribs. And that’s just weird.

13. What musician would you like to hang out with for a day?
Ice Cube. Dolly Parton. Kathleen Hanna. Guided by Voices. David Crosby. Tom Petty, so long as we didn’t have to talk about his music. That would be awkward.

I wouldn’t have minded trying to make Elliott Smith laugh.

14. What musician would you like to be in love with for a day?
Eminem. Just kidding. I had a dream once in which he loved me. He was so creative and talented in the dream (and real life), that I loved him, too. I had a crush on him for a few months because of that dream. Prior to the dream (and 8 Mile), I hated him so much I had to jokingly refer to him as “My Personal Lord and Savior.” I thought it was dangerous for someone with so much charisma and influence to spout such hateful things. So…I think we’d fight in real life. Plus, I’m not as good at putting on lip liner as his wife is.

I probably would be okay with any really smart, handsome, sensitive-but-not-in-an-“ask me about my menses”-way musician being in love with me. So long as they weren’t gone half the year on tour making it with other girls and falling off stage because of all the damn booze. I mean, how am I supposed to raise a family with this kind of chaos?!

Oh. Wait, The question asks about one day…hmm, I’d probably be okay with Dwight Yoakam serenading me. Or Ryan Adams if I promised not to make Bryan Adams jokes and he weren’t being a baby.

15. Pat Benatar or Cyndi Lauper?
I wouldn’t have taken this survey if I’d know the questions would be so cruel. This is me conscientiously objecting to respond.

16. Sabbath or solo Ozzy?
I’ll take Ozzy any way you’ll give him to me.

17. Commodores or solo Lionel Ritchie?
I wouldn’t have taken this survey if I’d known the questions would be so insulting: solo Lionel. I like him pure, unadulterated, and in a teacher role, calling his teenage blind students to say “Hello, I love you.”

18. Punk rock, hip hop or heavy metal?
Punk rock, often. But why isn’t AltCountry a choice?

19. Doesn't Primus suck?
Beyond “Jerry was a Race Car Driver,” which I kinda dig, I would have to agree. I think. I never liked enough of what I heard to hear more.

20. Name five flawless albums:
Now THIS is a survey question!

Joni Mitchell-Blue
Concrete Blond-Bloodletting
Built to Spill-There’s Nothing Wrong with Love
Guided by Voices-Bee Thousand
Ice Cube-Lethal Injection
Erin McKeown-Distillation
GNR-Appetite for Destruction
Bikini Kill-Pussy Whipped
Operation Ivy-self-titled
Misfits-the one we call “Plan 9” but I think is actually self-titled
Screeching Weasel-Anthem for a New Tomorrow (which I just found out is now out of print. This is criminal. Another crime is that “Sunshine” is on a different record. Hmm, maybe that’s this album’s one flaw. Let’s call this one an Honorable Mention.)

I have the horrible feeling that I am forgetting some crucial records here. To those, I apologize.

21. Did you know that filling out this survey makes you a music geek?
Oh, this only ONE of the ways that I am a geek.

22. What was the greatest decade for music?
This one—since we have all the music up until now. Had I been around at the right time, though, I would have loved to have seen The Doors live. And David Bowie during the Ziggy Stardust phase. But see #26 for more thoughts on this one.

23. How many music-related videos/dvds do you own?
2. But technically, 3. One is a video of videos (follow me?) for an awesome Dwight Yoakam record. My brother gave it to me. (Hi Andrew!) The other one is a beta tape (that’s right) from 1989. I was a black-wearing, earth-saving, Amnesty International letter-writing (well, letter-signing—I was lazy then, too) high school freshman. So, the beta tape WAS an episode of 120 Minutes that I taped from MTV as soon as we had a Betamax AND cable. It had a Smiths video as well as videos from PIL and several other great alternative bands that I would have an easier time remembering if I hadn’t taped a Grateful Dead show over it when I was in 12th grade and a giant hippie. You’d think I could have found different beta tape to record the Dead show. I mean, how hard could it have been? But, no, the Dead were suddenly way more important than Morissey and so I threw the baby out with the bathwater. Damn my phases.

24. Do you like Journey?
Yes I do like Journey.

25. Don't try to pretend you don't!
I didn’t! I came clean!

26. What is your favorite movie soundtrack?
Pretty in Pink: Psychedelic Furs, Suzanne Vega, OMD, Echo & the Bunnymen, The Smiths, and more. I am so glad that I was alive and listening to good music when it originally came out.

Also, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the Grease 2 soundtrack. It's soooo cooool. Like Pink Ladies Cool.

27. What was your last musical phase?
It’s safe to say that I have lately been re-romanced by Naught by Nature. On a scale of one to DAMN! They get a DAMN! Twice. (I wish I could make the song “Sunshine” just appear on your iTunes. If I see you, I’ll give you 99 cents to make it happen. This reminds me of Ice-T’s “99 Problems.” You should probably give that a listen, too. I’ll give you a $1.98 instead.) I am sad for people who don’t get to listen to KDAY (Hip Hop Today and Back in the Day--93.5 on the LA Dial).

28. What's the crappiest CD/record/etc?
I love women in rock. I love that women rock. I mean, women rock! But I have some tape compilation called Women in Rock and I’m here to tell you that it is really a compilation of the unrockingest or lamest rockingest women ever. I got it for free from some bizarre rock/artist showcase in Baltimore—an event that I still don’t know how I got roped into going. Worse, I dragged my bff—visiting from far away—there with us. The whole thing makes me uneasy to think about, really. I might need to go home and crush that tape Office Space style. Or, more likely, place it gingerly in the trash.

I think it would be awesome if each of you answered one of these questions, too. Any question you want. I changed the settings so ANYONE can leave a comment in the comments section--no special sign-in or anything. And you know who you are? ANYONE. (And by anyone, I mean Someone Special.)

Kisses!

No happy endings, but...

2006-01-26T00:18:00.000-08:00

Massage therapy school is AWESOME. As of last night (class #1), I am now 4 hours closer to becoming a certified massage technician. As I work on getting certified, I will need people to practice on. So far, anijoon has offered (shout out!) and, thus, will receive. I need others. Live in LA or come visit me. I promise that I will not try anything funny. And I'll learn how to properly drape, so the sheet's properly covering your junk.

Feel the flow

2006-01-24T10:36:00.000-08:00

It was 19-NAUGHTY-5 on my drive in to work today. I was feelin the flow, clappin my hands, holdin my shorty, and thinking about how I got accepted into massage therapy school yesterday.

Granted, getting "accepted" into an institution whose application includes the question "Name as you'd like it to appear on your diploma" is not exactly a hard thing to do (though I hear Harvard's contains a similar question), there is a bit more to it than holding up a mirror for signs of breath (which is what my brother-in-law supposed was their method of screening). It was more like this: after they put the mirror away, I had to read a paragraph about muscles and how they work and answer questions about it. FIVE questions. Based on that and other questions about why I want to pursue bodywork, etc they accepted me on the spot into their program (whew!). Classes begin this evening.

So I bought twin bed sized flannel sheets for the practice sessions, cut my fingernails, and got my anatomy coloring book (which seems like a lot of fun until you see that it weighs about ten pounds and provides way less diagrams of genitalia than you'd hoped for). Nonetheless, I am super excited about it. It's a four month program, part-time, and will not interfere with my full-time gig.

Driving in to said full-time gig and singing "feel the flow" it occurred to me that that's what I was going to get to do in massage therapy, which is really all about energy flow and healing. Plus, this program teaches tai-chi as the basis of movement while giving a massage...you can't get much more flowy than that. My life will be one of peace and harmony and--if I keep up with the Naughty by Nature--lots more singing about poontang, tang for e'erbody!

Why do people like me?

2006-01-22T23:15:00.000-08:00

My apartment doesn't have a washer/dryer in the unit. There's one coin-op washer and one coin-op dryer in the garage below the building for all of the residents to share. There are only like 8 or 9 apartments, so I would share the machine with, at the most, 20 people. But I don't roll that way.

I've lived in this building for over two months and have yet to use the "laundry facilities on the premises" (is it me, or does this read like a lease?). Anyway, like most people who aren't Paris Hilton, I do not have enough clothes (read: underwear) to go this long without doing laundry. And a laundromat--with its inevitable bad radio AND staticky TV playing noisy sports--was not an inviting alternative. I think the thing that irks me the most about laundromats are their sterility, their vacancy. Laundry, though not a relished chore, is one that smacks of home and nesting. I mean, who the hell goes out of the house to wash their dishes, to clean their bathroom? It just doesn't make sense. I mean, it's an outrage! I hadn't had to deal with no-laundry-in-unit trauma since New York in grad school and was clearly not taking too kindly to such a cruel downshift in my standard of living.

So, with the two most obvious options utterly offensive to me, I had to get creative. The first time I was faced with the extremely dire need to wash my clothes (read: underwear), I figured out the perfect solution: inflict my tedious weekend tasks on others. I just hate laundromats so much and who wants to fight over the one machine in the building? That's what I bitched about to my friend about on the phone. I'd had plans to hike with her and her husband (also a friend) that afternoon but how could I deal with this laundry situation and still get to enjoy an afternoon hike with them? Basically, I was enough of a whiny baby about it that they insisted I do it at their place. (Well, maybe insisted is too strong a term, wearily offered is probably more accurate.) So I head over to their place, simultaneously sheepish at their kindness and triumphant about my successful avoidance of laundry facilities that require quarters and sitting around. I arrive, we chat, we throw in laundry, and head out for our hike.

It's a lovely afternoon--a hike that could best be described as "strolling in the woods"--but the conversation was stimulating and the air was crisp and nice. Following this, the afternoon was made even more lovely by our decision to stop in Santa Monica on the way back to their place. They had a quick errand to run, which reminded me that I had a thing or two I'd like to get done as well. While they were looking for a gift in a particular store, I was, too--for a friend's birthday party that night. And since we were just across the street from Aveda, I asked if there was time to get my brows waxed. It's only supposed to take 10 minutes and they had another teensy errand to take care of, so no big whoop. (Brow waxing is another activity that involves some amount of consternation for me; because I don't have a regular browsthetician, I prefer to jump on the chance when it presents itself. And since it's I right there, and since I'm getting so much accomplished today already...)

So it takes a half an hour. I pay an obscene amount to the black-clad Aveda ladies, vow to ascertain the phone number of the lady I went to once on 3rd Street Promenade who only charges $10 and does a better job, and leave to look for my pals.

I find them in their car, waiting. To their credit, they are not that bothered at my delayed exit from the salon. (I'm not sure I'd be so accommodating: inconsiderate people are the worst!) So, gift in hand; brows plucked, waxed and arched; we head to their place in order for me to finish doing laundry. While the second load is in the dryer, they cook dinner for the three of us and we eat. It was delicious.

I thought of all of this today as I loaded three washers at one time and chatted to my bff during her layover at an airport. Then I loaded all three loads from their respective washers into one mega-dryer, leaving out the shrinkables and setting it at high heat for 40 minutes. When my bff and I got off the phone, I read my book. I ignored the football game on TV--though enjoyed the convo about it amongst two middle-aged men who were maybe becoming pals before my very eyes (awww, strangers becoming friends). And the radio even played "Joey" by Concrete Blonde. In less than 2 hours, ALL of my laundry was clean and folded and ready to go. Sheets, towels, jeans, underwear. And there are still tons of quarters left over in my little "laundry money" bag for next time.

The splendor of January 19th

2006-01-19T23:57:00.000-08:00

You know how sometimes you tease something because it is so so stupid or cheesy? This was one of my favorite past times in high school (hmm...and now, too). By senior year, my friend Jenny and I were veterans at cracking ourselves up at the existence of some totally lame things like that Kenny Rogers song "Planet Texas," the dance routine to "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" by Whitney Houston that we made up way back in 8th grade and, of course, that mousy girl who walked around school with an "Ask Me about Home Economics" balloon.

We would spend physics class writing stories in the following manner: one of us would write a few sentences, fold over the paper so only one line of what we'd written was visible--giving the other one of us very little to go on in order to write more sentences to fold over all but a line or so of before passing back to the other. We do this for about a page and half or so, giving it a proper ending, then open up the whole story, and read it aloud, cracking up as we go. These stories would inevitably have at least two or more of the following components:

1. One or the other of us being judged the "Most Beautiful Princess in All the Land" (I should mention here that about 98 percent of our stories took place in the Land of Sweetness, a "magical kingdom far far away" that, aside from a castle--naturally--had no characteristics that would actually discern it from our hometown, Burke, VA)

2. One or the other of us going on Studs (the 1991 dating show hosted by Mark DeCarlo, who has also guest starred in brilliant Boy Meets World) and being pursued by super hot hotties like "Chet" with gold chains, leather pants, no shirt and a totally hot bod!

3. One or the other of us running into Mr A--our goofy, singing (yes, singing) physics teacher (who, in real life, is my older sister's best friend's sister's husband's dad. No lie.) Anyway, we'd run into him when he was in danger of his own doing or he'd be an unlikely (read: comic and singing) hero for the lame "Ask Me about Home Economics" girl who was in trouble BIG TIME.

4. Something wildly unrealistic would happen, requiring that one of us "snapped into action immediately!"

In the end, though--every end of every story--there would be happiness and calm in all the Land of Sweetness.

After we'd made fun of our favorite things to make fun of in the story, we'd seek out more material for mocking at one of our houses after school. As mentioned, "Planet Texas" was prime. We'd taken up watching CMT (Country Music Television), largely because it was like shooting fish in a barrel. I mean, between "Planet Texas" and "Here's a Quarter, Call Someone Who Cares" what was there NOT to make fun of? You just couldn't lose.

Imagine our delight, when CMT starting playing a Dolly Parton video for her latest hit single "Why'd You Come in Here Lookin [sic] Like That?" A sample:

why'd you come in here lookin like that/with your high-heeled boots and your painted on jeans/all dressed up like a cowgirl's dream...why'd you come in here lookin like that/when you could stop traffic in a gunny sack/why you're almost giving me a heart attack/when you waltz right in here lookin like that

The song was AWESOME--in the best, most ironic way possible. We loved it. I found myself tuning in after Jenny'd gone home--you know, just to see if the Dolly song was on. And if it wasn't, I check at night, confident that I'd catch it on CMT's Top 20 Countdown. And usually, the Dolly video was on (along with Lionel Cartwright's "Leap of Faith" and Randy Travis' "Forever and Ever, Amen" and that really good Sawyer Brown song and wait, what?!--since when did my love of mocking country music turn into my, ugh, enjoyment of country music?) That's when I learned a cruel lesson: ironic enjoyment has a shelf life. It doesn't die, it mutates. In short: that which you mock becomes that which you love.

It's a lesson I had begun to learn: first with The Bangles (entrypoint? "Eternal Flame"), followed by Boy Meets World (entrypoint? Nickelodeon), and who could forget Def Leppard? (Wait, that one was always sincere). Anyway, CMT was the experience that drove the lesson home. And no one drove it home better than Dolly.

Being a sappy teenager, I was already a fan of Steel Magnolias and, come to think of it, thought Dolly was great in it. Then she was on Oprah and sang a new song called "Eagle When She Flies." It was okay, I guess. Pretty cheesy, though, with her whisper-singing and all. A couple of years later, on a trip to or from college, I bought a Dolly's Greatest Hits cassette from the $4 music rack at a gas station. I thought, Ha! A Dolly Parton tape! Jenny would laugh so hard! Listening to this tape, though, is how I found out that Dolly wrote and sang "I Will Always Love You" long before that Whitney "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" Houston came along.

On another trip, I bought another cheap Best of Dolly Parton CD and, though several songs were different than the other one, "I Will Always Love You" was included. And this version of it made me cry. Not even pre-menstrual or post-break up tears. Nope, just the sheer beauty of Dolly's singing, nay, whisper-singing, got me RIGHT THERE. And that was it. I loved her.

I remembered back to that Oprah episode and Dolly told the audience in her sweet mountain accent, "Well I may be the fakest lookin person you'll ever meet but I'm also the realest person you'll ever meet." Recalling that and hearing the heartbreak in this version of the song, I got it. And then I went out and bought the CD with "Eagle When She Flies" on it. Then more of her music. Then her autobiography.

I once had a dream in which I met her. It was at Dollywood and I got into an elevator and she was in it already. We went up. It was just the two of us; her smiling graciously and me panicking silently. It was awesome.

So I guess the moral of this here tale is two-fold:

1. Today (January 19) is Dolly's 60th birthday. Think kind thoughts and, if you get a minute, download "My Tennessee Mountain Home" for sweetness and "Travelin' Man" for awesomeness

2. Lest we forget: Sometimes lifelong love takes years to grow. And sometimes that love begins as mocking.

From tragedy to perfect in one hour or less

2006-01-17T22:54:00.000-08:00

Why oh why was Love Monkey so tedious? I mean, adding some rock n' roll songs and a John Mayer sound-alike does not a good show make. A sad lesson here is that not all formulaic entertainment is as good as White Chicks. Also sad--at least on a personal level--is that I'll probably tune in next week. Something about how it all worked out in the end (for those of you've TiVo'ed and not yet viewed, skip over this next li'l bit)...I mean this guy speaks his mind about the importance of being in the music business for the music, damn it, and not for making a buck. He delivers such impassioned words in a meeting amongst colleagues and boss and then gets fired for such passion. So very Jerry Maguire. THEN his girlfriend, whom he's not that into, dumps him. THEN THEN, the hot new act (John Mayer sound-alike) that he wanted to sign is being wooed by his ex-employer, Goliath Records. Could things suck worse?! Heck, no! They couldn't suck worse. Praise Jah for his bff, an attractive woman who has a boyfriend but may really have a thing for our hero. Meanwhile, our wallowing hero begins to notice said bff until he meets a hottie. AND for being a decent guy to a fellow music-guy, got offered a job at that guy's label--smaller than Goliath and "about the music." Our hero is home. What's more, this smaller label--we'll call it, uh, David--just signed the John Mayer sound-alike AND the hottie he met at the bar WORKS at this label!!!

[Welcome back, TiVo folks...]

I guess another reason why I may tune into Love Monkey again is because it's like a mirror of my own life. Let's take a look at some recent events at Camp Starpower:

I woke up the other morning to yet another glorious Los Angeles day--blue sky, cool breeze, sunshine and plam trees. I noted that my hair had been kissed by the sun and was extra-lightened to a rich auburn. In fact, if I was not mistaken, my hair was even richer and wavier and auburner than its usual rich and wavy auburnness. I slathered on some fake bronzing lotion ala fellow-Irish-girl-in-tantown Lindsay Lohan and headed out into the day. If I recall correctly, I was wearing an understated tiara, rhinestone-studded "QT" baby-tee, low-rise pencil denim skirt, (for lack of a better term) "high-rise" thong, and 4 inch heels. I looked really good, you guys--but I had to, since I had a meeting at work with important clients. So after a quick peer at the ocean from my building's steps, I proceeded to my car and set off for work.

Now it was way too pretty a day to think about the world's problems so I passed on NPR and slipped in one of my fave CDs of all time, The Bangles Greatest Hits. While singing "If She Knew What She Wants" at the top of my lungs and thinking about the Big Meeting and how I was sure to wow the clients with my knowledge of the issues and totally hot butt cleavage, I looked in the mirror on the driver's-side-flippy-block-the-sun thing and noticed a total lack of mascara on one of my eyelashes. I'd only be wowing them with my complete lack of attention to detail walking into the office like that! So I immediately fished the mascara out of my purse, pulled the flippy thing down further to be at a more strategic mascara-fixing angle, when--out of NOWHERE--a car was suddenly in front of me and stopped.

Now I'd slowed a little bit before the crash--I always slow down dramatically when applying make-up of any kind, for safety--so it could have been a lot worse. Try telling that to the guy whose car I hit, though. So we pulled over (as in, he could totally still drive his car. Shees.) Still, he was soooo mad, saying it was all my fault, blah blah blah. His strong jaw clenched in anger, he demanded my phone number and insurance information. I demanded to know what time it was since I was going to be late for a meeting. He was all, "You're not the only one with meetings around here. Just because I don't have my tiara on doesn't mean I don't have big important work to do." He said this last part in a whiny baby girl voice which, as a feminist who chooses to wear tiaras, I was pissed. But I was also professional and had a meeting to get to. So, rather than fake-lament the teensy amount of damage I did to his big Earth-killing SUV, I apologized (as if it were my fault, gah), reminded him he had my info, and dashed off to work.

I park my semi-crashed car in the garage (I should have been singing "Manic Monday" with all the chaos of the morning), and set in with that little hop-run that are all heels and pencil skirts allow when you're trying to get somewhere fast and hop-run hop-run hop-run across the street, down the hall, towards the office. I am late. The meeting was scheduled to start 10 minutes before my now postponed arrival. And if I had an aeroplane, I still couldn't make it on time... So as I near the office door, expecting the worst reaction from my boss, frowns from the clients and shit! I never got to fix my mascara! Euyavuys, could it get any worse? I mean, could it? (On the way in, I think my reflection showed my auburn was even a little less rich, a little more brown. If this weren't LA and this were a made-up story, I'd totally make it start to rain at this point. Everything is terrible--what if I get fired for blowing the Big Meeting?)

I get my wits about me and turn the office door, nearly wincing at the impending doom. And there's nothing. Nothing but PRAISE, that is! My boss and two of the three client contacts were lined up in the entrance of our office, complimenting me on my outfit, butt cleavage, and, most of all, sheer professionalism. I was all, "But I'm late. ?" "No, no, Sam called and explained the whole thing," says Boss. I was confused, "Who's Sam?" Client contact 1 explains, "Let us give you a hint: 'I may not wear a tiara, but...'" No way. In the little girl whiny voice and everything. I brightened, "Am I getting punk'd?" "Ha! That's for famous people. You're not famous!" (Thanks, boss.) Client contact 1 pipes up again, "Well, not famous yet, that is." Client contact 2 continues, "First of all, Sam's very sorry for his mood this morning--he's not only a business man--on his way to this meeting, in fact--but he's also a producer and he'd just found out the leading lady for his new film is pregnant with Brad's, er, is pregnant and cannot take the role after all. And shooting starts tomorrow." Client contact 1 continues, "Anyway, Sam was so impressed with your calm demeanor at the accident site--though he knew you must have been angry--he figured you'd be a bang-up actress. Get it? Bang-up?" (Ahh, car crash humor.) Client contact 2 butts in, "He does think you'd make a great actress...well, after we get that mascara issue worked out." (Wince.) Boss rains on the parade, "Um, what about the work we have to do here?" Client contact 1, "It's a go! You get the contract!" "Great! But who's going to do it--Starpower's the best we got!" Client contacts 1 and 2 in unison, "And now she's the best we got!" Laughter all around.

So that's why I can watch Love Monkey. I can totally relate.

TV crush

2006-01-11T23:55:00.000-08:00

Well it was already pretty obvious that I have a crush on the wonder that is television. But I'm here to tell you that now I have a crush who is on television. And it is because of said crush that I can never go to sleep before midnight. Not anymore anyway. Not with my boyfriend Stephen Colbert's show coming on at 11:30 I can't. Sure I could watch the 8:30 showing of The Colbert Report instead of the exact same "late edition" three hours later but I don't. I don't have a good reason why I don't and to tell you the truth I rarely ever go to sleep before midnight anyway. So why is this different? Well now instead of like reading (stupid reading) I just turn on the TV and sigh. He's so funny. And socially aware. And remarkably generic-looking. But the more I watch, the more generic morphs into handsome as I laugh and laugh and laugh at his take on our country. He makes this Administration and the news about it a little easier to take. I heart anyone who can do that. But really I heart him.

Basic Cable Movie Review #1: White Chicks

2006-01-07T11:15:00.000-08:00

"Don't hate me because you ain't me" is only one of a gajillion super funny things about the movie-that's-been-out-since-2004-
but-I-just-saw-on-basic-cable-last-night: White Chicks.

This little gem comes to us from the genius comedic minds of the Wayans brothers and let me tell you, this shit is FUNNY. If I weren't laid up with a cold on a Friday night would I have been at home watching TV or at the tapas place with my friends about a mile from my house? Well, obviously I'd be enjoying a cheese plate among my pals and possibly even sipping some sangria (though I've kind of been on the outs with ye olde alcohol since new year's) , but Fate swept in, insisting that illness stayed with me beyond the bounds of the work week and into the weekend proper. I normally loathe such evil antics but this time, friends--despite my attempts to rest and drink OJ and take homeopathic remedies and Western medicines alike--the illness keeping its stronghold* was a good thing. You see, it brought me White Chicks. Let's go through a little checklist and see how well it did:

1. Requires MASSIVE suspension of disbelief? You bet! To think that every single person who saw man-sized Shawn and Marlon dressed as the petite hotel heiress Wilson twins thought that they were in fact the Wilson twins AND to think that Shawn and Marlon didn't make the most disturbing-looking pair of white girls ever AND to think that no one in the movie thought that they looked disturbing, but in fact wanted to get with their fine white asses? Well, suspend away, folks, because it's worth it.

2. Involves two officers of the law who can't get a break from their chief? That's right! Shawn and Marlon play FBI agents who just can't get a fair shot--especially not with that pesky other pair of agents who get all the breaks.

3. Get one teensy break from their chief and mess it up and a bunch of wacky hijinks ensues to cover it up? I mean, all they had to do was pick up the Wilson twins from the airport. Easy, right? Especially for two great-yet-unproven-agents as Kevin (Shawn, aka the cuter one) and Marcus (Marlon, aka cute until you see Shawn)? It should be and would have been had those actual white chicks been reasonable. But they weren't. They were being spoiled like general audiences assume rich hotel heiresses to be (it's sad how misunderstood we are) and refused to go to the Hamptons for the weekend like they were supposed to. Soooooo, not wanting to be seen as failing a simple task, guess who goes in the twins' place? You guessed it!

4. While undercover, find clues to the mystery just by being in the right place at the right time? Indeed. In spades. They practically crack the case in one vomit session.

5. Includes scenes involving humor too low for Starpower to enjoy, causing her to shut her eyes in disgust? Several times. So nasty. The movie gets 1/2 a demerit for that. It would get discredited more but the rest of it is so hilarious.

6. Contains dance scenes? I just can't ruin this part.

7. Uses cruelty to animals as a plot device and for humor? Totally.

8. Involves an oversimplified love story as a side plot, complete with its own hijinks and usage of lies and deceipt to get to a woman's heart and when the lies and deceipt are revealed to the woman, he still wins her over? Yes!!! And the lies and deceipt are HUGE! But it's Shawn Wayans and he smiles all cute and you can just tell that he means well. Plus, he does something to make up for it. Something in addition to coming clean, that is (once he's already been busted, that is).

9. Agents get busted by chief, get fired by chief, and through conviction to solve case and salvage careers, save the day? What do you think?

10. Reasons to watch the movie: Well, if I hadn't already made the case for watching it crystal clear (and/or ruined the whole movie for you), there are even more reasons why you should watch White Chicks. Seeing black men talk like white chicks. Seeing white chicks talk like white chicks. Latrell. All scenes involving the Vanessa Carlton song. Jennifer Carpenter who also plays Emily Rose in the Exorcism of...she shines in the dressing room scene. Plus she's from Louisville, KY where my mom's from and went to Sacred Heart Academy for high school--where my mom went. Hmm, I guess that's not really a selling point to get you to watch the movie but the dressing room scene should be.

If I had a talk show, I'd dedicate an episode to interviewing all the Wayans involved in this masterpiece, all of the white chicks, and their little dog, too. And you'd each find a copy of the White Chicks DVD under your chairs.

*"the illness keeping its stronghold" is perhaps a little dramatic. I mean, it's a cold, not cancer. What kind of a baby am I?

Freedom from five, aka why not start the year off with a lame blog entry?

2006-01-06T08:59:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! I meant to do a little highlights and lowlights of 2005 thing at the end of this past year but was too busy listening to country music while driving a blue pick up truck throughout Virginia, Maryland, and DC visiting family and friends. One has to maximize one's time while at the other side of the country, seeing as many people who are important to one as possible. I'm not sure that I was able to spend as much time with anyone as I would have liked, but I am glad that I at least got to see as many of them ('them' such a nice term for loved ones) as I did. I'd say that it was a little hectic with all the driving except that I really like driving. Living in LA, this is a very good thing, since hating driving would probably equal hating LA.

I am glad to be back. In my room, in my bed. I would be driving (ahh, driving) to work right now, except that my head is so stuffed up that it's about 17 pounds (and pounding) and I have a cough and other unpleasantness. I was at work for about an hour yesterday before being sent home. Like the rest of California, there's a bit of a flu epidemic in our office; many of us were home sick or told to go home. I was glad to go not only because I was feeling so nast, but also because a person of authority told me that I should not be working. How great it is when responsibility is temporarily removed from you? Like being told you have to stay home for a snow day. Dang. Except you don't typically feel like ass on a snow day, so I guess it's really not as cool after all.

A highlight of 2006 is already apparent: I don't have to cut and paste the number five anymore when typing the year. You see, the five key has been missing from my trusty laptop since one cat was running from another cat in my bedroom two years ago. I was typing away when Miss LC jumped onto my bed, ran across my pillows, then skidded across my lap, which was holding this keyboard. By the time she cleared it, the five key and the key with the tilde symbol were popped clean off. Thanks, cat.

So I won't have to scramble for already-typed fives when typing the year. I have to say that that alone may promise that 2006 is totally going to be the best year in my whole life so far.

I bet I could kick his ass at Pilates

2005-12-22T16:33:00.000-08:00

Last night I put on my fave yoga pants, a yoga shirt that was one exercise session away from needing to be washed (at least I thought it was. oops.), sparkle-topped blue thick-soled flip-flops, and my prized "Maid in Manhattan" hoodie and headed off to Rodeo Drive to do some Christmas shopping. Not really. (But add a pair of diamond earrings and a chihuahua and I would have blended right in strolling past the pricey boutiques!) Nope, I wore my yoga pants to yoga. It was a level 2/3 class and, though I am firmly in the 1/2 camp, I went anyway. I'd been to this teacher's class before and it was mostly insane stretching and not a lot of pose-holding. Since I am practically made of rubber, it was perfect. Plus, the teacher's all meditation-focused, so when my pal and I left the class that first time, we were all spaced-out and float-y. Like one should be post-yoga. With all of this in mind, I go last night with a pretty good idea about what I am going to get: stretchy and blissed-out. Now I'll put my arms around the universe and say namaste to that!

I enter the studio (early, might I add) only to find out that there's a different teacher tonight. Blasted holidays and different schedules! I don't think about how hard it might be since I am too busy sitting on the floor, going through the sale bin. Last time I did that I got the best t-shirt ever. I don't think life gets any sweeter than a reasonably priced t-shirt that makes your boobs look that good. And it was. And they did. Sigh.

[Sidebar: Is it wrong to sigh about your own breasts?]

The door to the Sun Room opens, yogis file out. We file in. It is hot in there (like the sun, ha ha). And humid (like DC, ugh). Now if it were a Bikram class where heat's part of the deal, that's one thing. But this is apparently Chi-gong style Yoga where I--knowing nothing about it naturally assume it will be a comfortable temperature--was thus disappointed when it was so grody. Oh well, sweat's good, right? Yes. So long as you're not slipping off of your mat.

We did lots of warrior 2's which is one of my favorite poses. We also did tree pose, wherein one leg is bent and the sole of that leg's foot rests against the inner thigh of the other leg, arms stretched up past your ears. It feels sooooo good. We also did lots of bending down and sweeping our arms up and around our bodies. This doesn't sound hard and it isn't. We were also asked to stand with our feet very grounded, our shoulders square and down, tailbone tucked under, and hold our arms in front of us as if hugging another one of ourselves (whoa). We were to hold this pose for five minutes. This doesn't sound hard and it is. It hurts. Like a motherfucker. As does sitting down and holding your arms outstretched to either side with your middle and index fingers held out to while the other digits are tucked in. At first that seemed kinda bizarre that those two fingers got special treatment until some very angry tendon that I can now feel runs the length of my entire arm begins to burn intensely, cursing me, and threatening to secede from the rest of me, taking my shoulder muscles with it. I had to keep dropping my arms down for little breaks just to keep'em as part of the Starpower Team.

By this point, the teacher had already recognized me as, um, honoring my own pace. He'd already come over a few times and corrected my body position and now had begun to say "Levels 1 and 2, do _____ this way. Level 3's do _____ this other way." Then he'd follow up with "Yoga is not about success or failure. No excitement for doing it the right way and no upset about doing it the wrong way. There is no right and wrong. No reaction, just the doing." All of which I agree with--except when I am trying to do a pose without falling down. Then he insisted on helping me do a proper handstand. Once I kicked my legs up, he held them up high for a longer time than I can say was actually viable. I am not saying this because I awoke with the worst yoga hangover (a "yangover") ever this morning. I mean, I have the whole session to thank for that. But based on the weird clicking sound that now comes from somewhere in my lower back every time I walk, I can officially say that the handstand thing was too much.

Procrastination: a siren song

2005-12-19T11:40:00.000-08:00

Back from a work trip to Philly. Shout-out to the good people at Fork, a restaurant where the food was so good that I think I showed my O-face as I ate the curry acorn squash over rice. My O-face--right in front of my coworkers and everything. How appropriate. The entree was followed by a trio of yummy desserts: flourless chocolate cake (my fave in all circumstances, ever), chocolate mousse, and blackberry-topped creme brulee. By the time the server asked if we wanted anything else--post-pomegranate-martini, post-FABULOUS-curry, post-dessert-spread-of-champions, all I could think was I don't know, maybe some sex? I mean, leaving there, I felt good and that would be about the only thing that could top it. So I went out and had sex! Just kidding. I did not go out and did not have sex. I am a lady of virtue. Do you hear me mom and dad? You raised A LADY OF VIRTUE--this daughter is anyway. (Ooh, snap! Madelyn!)

Now let's discuss a time when I was not so virtuous (not that kind of unvirtuous, what do you people think of me? Shees!) The kind of unvirtuous that requires a little story, another tale from Shepherdstown. Before beginning, I have to say that Shepherdstown was not the pivotal time in my life that it may appear to be based on the amount of air-time I give it here. Many other life experiences have shaped me far more than the just-shy-of-two-years-in-West-Virginia (challenge: make living in Angola sound light-hearted enough for blogspace!), but I can honestly say that I learned a lesson in Shepherdstown that I doubt I'll ever forget.

In my younger years, I was a procrastinator. I thought time was my play-thing. I thought of myself as Time's Worthy Adversary. Not consciously of course--I rarely even knew what time it was, or, arguably what time itself was. In my high school--nay, elementary through high school years--I awoke many amorning (and laid in bed listening) to my mom yelling at me to get out of bed and get ready for school. Many many many an all-nighter for college and grad school papers. I just didn't value time and the pleasure of taking it (truly the way to make it your bitch). Rather, I enjoyed the hunt. The hunt for lost seconds that just weren't there. If this light's green and every other light is also green and there's a parking spot open by the building's entrance then maybe I'll only be two or three minutes late to work. I can do it! Then when the lights are not all green and I have to park in the further lot and am thus eight or ten minutes late to work for a job that I am technically supposed to be 15 minutes early for everyday to report at shift-change, well, then you can only hope your scads and scads of charm will help smooth over the inconvenience.

By playing the Procrastination Game, you get lots of opportunities to develop your creative faculties--what with 10 hours to write a 20-page paper; powers of analysis--plenty of if-then scenarios; interpretive math--if the clock is 5 minutes fast and I'm 10 minutes away and I'm leaving when the clock says I should be there, etc; and endless chances of winning-over-the-miffed which is truly a life skill not just for customer service representatives, but for all of us. So I can honestly say that my chronic procrastination has improved me as a person. And my powers of rationalization. Really, though: being late for work everyday in an environment where people need you to show up so they can leave? I have to admit makes me kind of an asshole.

I truly never meant my lateness to be a sign of disprespect and think I did a good job of conveying that to others. Personal flaw and all of that. I didn't mean to be late to that group home job near Shepherdstown all the time, I was just comfortable on the couch and hated leaving my house for work before the re-run of Northern Exposure had ended. It's a fabulous show, you know? It didn't mean that I didn't care about my job or the girls who lived there or the staff who worked there, it just meant I was watching a good damn show on television instead of driving to my job. Surely anyone would understand that. Except my boss who put me on probation for 90 days for my tardiness. I was then on time. For 90 days.

Sadly, this was not the lesson I learned.

I so didn't learn it that I waited until the exact last day I could to send away a grad school application that through some mental alchemy I figured would still be on time for the deadline. Even though it had to get there on Monday. And it was Saturday. And the post office was about to close. Given my lifetime tally of head-to-heads as Time's Worthy Adversary (Time: 1,000,012 Starpower: 4), I should have known to not wait so long. Thus, I had to launch into the mental speech, Starpower, this always happens, why didn't you do this sooner?!, etc. Not so torturous as it sounds. It's almost for show, really, so that way I don't come off to myself as totally apathetic. Just apathetic enough to put it off, not apathetic enough to not care about it once the consequences are bearing down on me.

They were bearing down big time that Saturday almost-noon. The ink still drying on the application, I took the piles of papers, letters of recommendation (If you don't mind her gracing your class 10 minutes late every session...), essay and everything else that amounts to an application; shoved them all in the car and raced to the post office. To my shock--yes, shock (why oh why is the world so against me?!)--there was no parking spot immediately available. Not within a half-block in any direction visible from my car window, that is. Except for one. The one that's always available. The one you never take. Mental alchemy at work--aided by hefty body-doses of adrenaline, I think--I took the handicapped spot. I mean, what's ONE MINUTE, right? It won't take long for me to package all of the stuff and address it and wait in line and give it to the postperson and pay and leave. Of course not.

The line is long. Very very long. At first it was okay because I was then able to put it all together. But then I was finished. Ready to post. And STILL there were people in front of me. What gives? Then I recognized a woman who walked in a bit after I did. My mom worked at the library and this woman, real estate agent/rental property manager, went in there often. This was in fact the woman who told me about the farmhouse that I then went on to rent. Hmm, my property manager, if you will. I noted that she noted the tattoo on my arm, which she hadn't seen when I was signing the lease. A fairly uptight woman, she seemed to disapprove. We shared pleasantries nonetheless. It was all very these-are-the-people-in-your-neighborhood. Better yet, the post office line was finally moving.

I get to the front, hand over the documents and money and hope they reach the grad school on time (which, if memory serves, they did not). I exit the building and hear some sort of a hub-bub. A woman in a station-wagon with others in her car is yelling something. She's not parked, but idling in the street. I am on the steps of the p.o. and am moving towards my vehicle. My highly-illegally parked vehicle. As I get closer, I realize that she is yelling about my highly-illegally parked vehicle. Who the hell would park in this spot?! This is a handicapped spot!!! Who would do this?! Others are stopped on the sidewalk and are looking. I bite the bullet and advance. My very proper property manager has now exited the building and is now also watching the action unfold. I wince but continue on to my car--and the woman yelling from hers--readying my charm-the-miffed apology. The Yeller and I make eye-contact, she gets more enraged and the who-the-hells morph into Who the hell do YOU think YOU are to park here?! YOU'RE not handicapped! My MOTHER--sitting in THIS car--is handicapped! THIS car with a HANDICAPPED sticker on it! We have been driving around the block waiting for this spot to open up! She can't make it any further!

Oh.

I apologize profusely. And mean it. I would have meant it anyway, but now I meant it and was scared. I get in my car, apologizing more, receiving tsks from all corners of the sidewalk and, especially, on the steps: the Property Manager narrows her eyes and shakes her head. I can almost hear the What would your mother think?

So, lesson MORE THAN learned. It more than answered my question about In the short time I'm going to be parked here, what are the chances... that's for sure. Now I never planned to routinely park in specially-designated parking places--other than spots with Starpower stenciled in, of course--but now I will NEVER even think of it again. I don't even use handicap bathroom stalls. The gravity of how uncool it is was made very very clear. With, in my opinion, a sitcom-like hilarity to it to boot. So that's good. A spoonful of sugar kind of thing.

Since I'm being all self-effacing (and you-effacing), I have to be honest. I am still a procrastinator at heart--and sometimes even in practice. You just can't tell anymore because I moved to California, where our kind rule. Play to your strengths or at least live in such a way that your weaknesses are less noticeable. And even if said weakness is procrastination--a handicap in many ways--never, ever park in a handicapped spot. Those are for people with physical handicaps. ONLY.

So maybe Travis Barker deserves SOME respect

2005-12-09T09:25:00.000-08:00

Props to either the Boost T-Mobile People or Blink 182's Travis Barker: whoever decided to put that snippet of a Descendents song at what was ostensibly a Descendents show on that commercial where Travis could have been a body builder. The credit should probably go to Travis, even though he really doesn't seem too bright otherwise. Incidentally, he actually looks like he could have had that body builder body, which is weird because he's like 1/8th that size. Hmmmm, so just who is this Travis Barker after all? Eh, who cares. Descendents kick ass.

Better judgment shouts "TMI!" in the background

2005-12-07T23:13:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, my sister told me that BM stood for "bottom mess." She told me this even though she knew it really stood for bowel movement. You see, "BM" was short-hand for poop in our house. Anyway, we were sitting in a neighbor's basement and watching TV when she told me. I TOTALLY believed her. Not just because she was a good liar, but also because it just plain made sense.

I still think of that sometimes, but you probably don't want to know when.

Your cryin' shouldah-ah

2005-12-05T14:38:00.000-08:00

Next time you're in your car, roll down your window and sing at the top of your lungs. Especially to a really cheesy song, say "I'll Be" by Edwin McCain. Especially when stuck at a long light, say Sepulveda and Santa Monica, and there's a bus stop of people standing there. Or, at the very least, appreciate it when others do. I mean, don't just stand there and GLARE at the free entertainment. Shees! I mean, can't a gal spread some cheer?

DZ, well, you'll see

2005-12-02T00:07:00.000-08:00

Driving to work the other morning, I saw a big white pick up truck. So big it had a big backseat with a big side window big enough for a big sticker. The big sticker did not say "Bad Boy" or have a picture of Calvin pissing or praying (how weird is that, anyway?) Nope. The sticker was clear with white print--making the overall white-theme quite clean and classy-looking. It read "Powered by DZ Nuts." DO ANY OF YOU KNOW WHERE I CAN GET ONE OF THESE?! Or maybe I can get it like air-brushed across the back of my Altima's rear window or bumper. I mean, I'm not a purist--it doesn't have to be a sticker. I just gotta let the world know that my Nissan--like that pick up truck--is powered by dz nuts. Y'all better step.