Back in the day, I used Nerve.com for dating and artistic fun:
"a week in DC with lola"
me my goods my habits
I am: a woman
Looking for: a man
Interested In: friendship, dating, play
Age: 27
Location: midwesternly
Area Code: 666
Occupation: political whore
Education: college
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Religion: what have you got?
Star Sign: are you one?
Relationship Status: Single
Height: 5'6"
Weight: 125 lbs
Hair color: not a hamptons blonde
Eye color: firey pools of observation
Cigarettes: sometimes
Booze: often
Drugs: never
Self-deprecation: never
you your goods your habits
Age: 18 - 88
Education: college, grad school, post grad
the tip of my iceberg
Last great book I read:
Let's Go Guide to Washington, DC... or how to make your own party in the nation's capital.
Most humbling moment:
a tie: talking to the inner demons of a homeless man in front of the white house - or - when my step-cousin leaned over and kissed me while drunkenly watching Apocolypse Now
Favorite on-screen sex scene:
a 1970's anti-feminist porn shown at the Women in the Arts museum
Celebrity I resemble most:
chandra levy.. only, alive.
Best (or worst) lie I've ever told:
to the congressman who offered to show me places i wouldn't normally have access to: 'i'll call you tomorrow!'
If I could be anywhere at the moment:
back in DC ass-fucking in the hilton, in richmond fucking, in the elevator of the rayburn with that hot lefty intern, in arlington finishing off where my cousin and i were interrupted, in the limo with the Honorable Reps.
Song or album that puts me in the mood:
WASH!ING!TON!DC - the magnetic fields
The five items I can't live without:
condoms, a guide book, metro map, camera, business cards
Fill in the blanks:
mingling is sexy; networking is sexier.
In my bedroom, you'll find:
i'm unpacked, maps of DC, undeveloped film, unpaid bills, unfulfilled desires, business cards, a shot of maker's mark, a pile of mail unread, clean sheets, the next campaign director for the next greatest thing
why you should get to know me
who else do you know who can fly into a new city and come away with 4 new lovers, 9 new potential employers, 3 new bruises, and a million new stories? i'm fun, fearless, friendly, you can dress me up for the kennedy center, you can undress me with your eyes and i won't take offense, and i don't wear khacki.
more about who I'm looking for
the next president of the states
editor's note: this is one of many stories created using a personal ad, for further information on the author, please see her other profile: lola990.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Hence, why it's good to have a sense of humor
Celine's last day in Paris and she wanted to grab lunch at a super hotspot in the Marais (where she's seen models and the famous).
Then, she wanted to do a pedicure/manicure thing. I have never done a pedicure/manicure thing. First, for the ethical reasons that these shops are horrendous on the Asian employees (why are they almost all Asian?). Second, I'm just not girlie enough for it. Third, I'm very aware that my feet are not my best feature - and they're ticklish.
When the Asian lady lifted up my foot from the tub to do some scrapey scrapey thing on the bottom, the 4 teen girls behind her cracked giggles and popped their eyes. One even leaned over to get a better look.
No, my feet are not clubbed. But yes, it's why I always wear sexy thigh-highs or cute knee-socks on dates.
For dinner, I went over to an international affair of all these kids from my grad program. And, who did I run into but the classical guitar player.
Ahhh, life.
Then, she wanted to do a pedicure/manicure thing. I have never done a pedicure/manicure thing. First, for the ethical reasons that these shops are horrendous on the Asian employees (why are they almost all Asian?). Second, I'm just not girlie enough for it. Third, I'm very aware that my feet are not my best feature - and they're ticklish.
When the Asian lady lifted up my foot from the tub to do some scrapey scrapey thing on the bottom, the 4 teen girls behind her cracked giggles and popped their eyes. One even leaned over to get a better look.
No, my feet are not clubbed. But yes, it's why I always wear sexy thigh-highs or cute knee-socks on dates.
For dinner, I went over to an international affair of all these kids from my grad program. And, who did I run into but the classical guitar player.
Ahhh, life.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
1,383
Total documents from 1987 until 2009. It's mostly 2005 onwards. I know I have notebooks and notebooks from 1986-2005. Only 1/10000 of them have been logged into a computer.
I'm overwhelmed with where to start. I don't think I want to be this kind of editor. It all seems interesting to me because it's my own history. Could it be another girl's life? Would someone relate to this? How boring is this? The latter, I've decided to follow the principle that if I feel like it's a dreary task to spell-check and capitalize, then I should move on to the next more interesting bit. Whether any of this is good is beyond me. Hell, I have no idea why I'm doing it, except there's just so damn much of it!
I'm overwhelmed with where to start. I don't think I want to be this kind of editor. It all seems interesting to me because it's my own history. Could it be another girl's life? Would someone relate to this? How boring is this? The latter, I've decided to follow the principle that if I feel like it's a dreary task to spell-check and capitalize, then I should move on to the next more interesting bit. Whether any of this is good is beyond me. Hell, I have no idea why I'm doing it, except there's just so damn much of it!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Reine des Reinette
They're not Gala or McIntosh apples.
Harvest: late September; Season: October - January
Description: Gourmet dessert apple. Flavor on the sweet side.
Wikipedia's French page translated:
The queen is a variety of apple relatively old, whose maturity occurs in late summer - early autumn.
The INRA d'Angers got around 1975 a mutant characterized by a more intense staining and early maturity. His name is Belrène.
Description of the fruit
The medium fruit has a thick enough skin, slightly rough, heavily dotted with gray, yellow streaked with dull red. Her pale yellow flesh, fine juicy, crisp and tart is very pleasant to chew. This is an especially suitable for pies, especially the tarte tatin.
* Shape: cylinder-conical, slightly depressed on one side at each end.
* Peduncle: medium length, strong, especially at the base, obliquely inserted in a narrow and deep basin.
* Eye: large, half-closed, very large cavity whose edges are generally united.
* Water: sufficient, sweet, tangy and deliciously scented.
* Maturity: December-March
* Quality: First.
* Wood: hard [1].
* Palm: generally small, slightly spreading, the largest and longest, very geniculate and very fluffy, green tinged with red red slate.
* Lenticels: elongated, very large, abundant.
* Pads: very emerged.
* Eyes: large, ovoid, obtuse, clad in bark and downy.
* Leaves: excessively large, oval, somewhat hairy and brownish green above, greenish-white below, shortly acuminate and deeply toothed.
* Petiole: Short, very heavy, tomentose, often fluted.
* Stipules: the longer and wider.
* Fertility: Ordinary. Bon pollinisateur. Good pollinator.
Culture
For full wind, graft flush with the ground, this apple is admirably suited and makes trees rod straight. Dwarf forms, it thrives quite well but needs to be budded on apple Paradise, about making it more productive by lessening the excess vegetation. The variety is particularly susceptible to aphids and has a strong tendency towards alternation.
Obtained in Holland, the tree is hardy and bears the very cold climates of Northern Europe.
The Queen of pippin is particularly recommended in all the orchards because they can pollinate many other varieties. It reached full flower 2 days after Golden Delicious and is pollinated by 'Granny Smith', 'Golden Delicious',' Starking Delicious.
History
Our Queen of Reinettes - whose original name seems to have been "Kroon Renet", belonging to the Batavian language and meaning "Pippin Crown" - was born about 1770. The Netherlands, where it has long cultivated several varieties of apples Kroon, is regarded by the pomologue Diel German as the source country of the latter, he described in 1802. He had received from the Hague under the label Kroon Renet.
In English, the variety called "Queen of the pippin" distinct variety of "King of the pippin", even if the two are often confused.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
I just ate one of these drizzled in the honey from my love affair last year with the Economist Beekeeper Sex God.
Meet Joe Black
For how terribly acted, for how long it runs, for the multiple and obvious goofs, for Brad Pitt's horrendous hair, for all these things - it's still a decent script.
There should be a remake soon. Less on the sap, more on the death, I bet. This plot is the same type of philosophical question we all have about the elements out of our control: nature (Anti-Christ), our obsessions (Little Children), mutants (X-Men), degrees of separation (Babel), beliefs (Angels and Demons), consciousness (The Matrix), and death (Meet Joe Black).
[I can't believe "dervish" came out of Anthony Hopkins' mouth. Like I can't believe "suborn" came out of Brad Pitt's.]
Bill: There's not an ounce of excitement, not a... whisper of a thrill. And this relationship has all the passion of a pair of titmice. I want you to get swept away out there. I want you to levitate. I want you to... sing with rapture and dance like a dervish. Be deliriously happy, or at least leave yourself open to be.
Love is passion, obsession, someone you can't live without. If you don't start with that, what are you going to end up with? Fall head over heels. I say find someone you can love like crazy and who'll love you the same way back. And how do you find him? Forget your head and listen to your heart. I'm not hearing any heart. Run the risk, if you get hurt, you'll come back. Because, the truth is there is no sense living your life without this. To make the journey and not fall deeply in love - well, you haven't lived a life at all. You have to try. Because if you haven't tried, you haven't lived.
Bill: You know, I got to thinking. With you here and seemingly occupied, how's your work going, I mean, elsewhere?
Joe: While you were shaving this morning, you weren't just shaving.
Bill: What do you mean?
Joe: You were hatching ideas, making plans, arriving at decisions, right?
Bill: Yeah, I guess so.
Joe: So you understand the concept. While part of you is busy doing one thing, another part of you is doing another, perhaps even attending to the problems of your work. Correct?
Bill: Of course.
Joe: So you understand the idea. Congratulations, Bill. Now multiply that by infinity, take that to the depths of forever, and you still will barely have a glimpse of what I'm talking about.
Joe: You're the poison, Drew. You've operated behind the scenes
to suborn the trust of a man... who has stamped you with his imprimatur of class, elegance and stature. I've had the opportunity to be witness to every kind and degree of deception. But Bill Parrish has been on the receiving end of machinations so Machiavellian... that it has rarely been my experience to encounter. And yet, he has combatted them stoically and selflessly, without revealing my identity. Had he violated the vow of secrecy he took, his task would have been far easier. He could have turned defeat into victory. But he is too honorable a man to have done that. Because of me, he has lost his work, his company, his reputation. So now, given these losses, I'm compelled to end the need for secrecy. The time has come to tell you who I am.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Lighthouse
Celine gave me good hash.
It's been nice to remember my relationship with drugs. It's been nice to roll a joint again. I have fond memories of this. I have skills. It's why I dropped out of college. I discovered that I had other talents - not just for debating Kant, analyzing the diverse voices in a work by Sherman Alexie, or writing incredibly descriptive essays for English class -- for an assistant professor who invited Gordon Gano, from the Violent Femmes, because his dad was their lawyer. I had other talents, too, though. Rolling joints, getting high, fucking, and rockin' out at punk rock shows. Not that those, in and of themselves, say something - but they do point to a certain release and re-evaluation of my abilities. All of these activities brought out something more deep in me. Revealed new parts of myself to my eyes.
I remember sometimes losing my grip on the roach holder. Or, nights where everyone took turns rolling a joint - and, would compare techniques. Filterless. Dan, with the redhaired afro, who listed to Pavement all day long, made pizzas all night, and was so riddled with shyness that he barely spoke a word. The Teller of Penn. He'd sometimes roll two papers together and make us all high for the night. There'd be boys and girls who'd come and go. Taylor, the jock-ish kid who embodied "tall, dark, and handsome." Not too wise, but smart enough. Not as many girls came through the mix. But when they did, those boys fell so hard in love.
We never talked much about that though. We'd talk about scoring, pooling our cash, meeting the kid down at the Jim Carroll show at The Whole (or insert your choice: Scooby Don't, The Strike, J Church, Dillinger Four, Avail, Man Afraid, Propagandhi, Tribe 8). Or, someone would collect, and then all of a sudden between morning classes and your afternoon lab, Dan or Eric or Shane would show up with a big bag of grass. We talked about how to do this, and we talked about doing it, with dry gutter weed, or sticky sweet dope, picking the seeds out, and gazing in awe at how hairy it was, glistening under the one lamp in the room, the individual scent of each bag, or the familiar smell of the same batch in town, how the body would buzz or zone or hunger or fuck. We, also, talked about musical notes, we turned up the music real loud and stuffed a towel under the door, and after a while, we started getting up. Inevitably, we would end up in a slow, shoulder-hunch slinky line to the doors of the dorm. There was always one kid who'd wandered around "the other day" and found this "fucking cool ass spot." Sometimes we jumped fences. Sometimes we hid in shadows. Sometimes we got caught - and were lucky they had a girl with them.
I could never roll a perfect joint. They always looked like a snake had eaten an elephant. Or a hat.
This summer, Mr FD reminded me about this. He liked joints. Ones with tobacco and weed mixed. I could remember this from doing it in Spain. It's a nice high, where instead of the brain turning to trails of lights and feeling unable to move, it feels capable and alert, yet overwhelmingly mellow. I learned how to roll, man, did I learn. Filter, long Rizlas that I wasn't familiar with, loosening the tobacco in a small dish, de-steming the grass, mixing the two into a once-in-a-while perfect cone. We'd listen to music, too. He had the tall speakers, and he'd move the ottoman to the center point of listening, I'd sit and sometimes just rock out - Aidonia from "Jamaica's Most Wanted Mixtape," Baden Powell, Antipop Consortium, Gnarls Barkley, Reverend Charlie Jackson, Ann Peebles, and then old familiars from the college days, Praxis and Parliament.
So, now, I'm rolling my own tonight. Re-learning my way around hash is fun. Celine's 24-year-old roommmate (who sports a 7 o'clock shadow, spiky hair, and used to work for Quicksilver) scored some. Apparently hash is what you smoke when there is no grass around town. It was funny to have drinks with Celine this past weekend and watch four guys his age get high and doll up for going out clubbing.
Interesting. She said a few things while we watched some UK humor flicks. Things like, I'd "never let her before." To my comment that we should have spent more time together hanging out during school. Things like, "Are you comfortable? You're leaning on your hand. You can sit back if you wanna." I found them just friendly gestures at the time. Hm.. I guess I did kiss her and fondle her tits the other night.
So, now, I'm sitting outside on the balcony terrace, it's night cold, and the Eiffel Tower light sends out its beacon like the lighthouse. The stars are out, hazily winking through the light clouds. I can barely differentiate the clouds from the sky but for a faint hint of grey contrasting to a darker dark blue. Yes, one could say, a midnight blue.
And then an interesting thought. There might be nothing that can be done about the past, but the future you can change.
It's been nice to remember my relationship with drugs. It's been nice to roll a joint again. I have fond memories of this. I have skills. It's why I dropped out of college. I discovered that I had other talents - not just for debating Kant, analyzing the diverse voices in a work by Sherman Alexie, or writing incredibly descriptive essays for English class -- for an assistant professor who invited Gordon Gano, from the Violent Femmes, because his dad was their lawyer. I had other talents, too, though. Rolling joints, getting high, fucking, and rockin' out at punk rock shows. Not that those, in and of themselves, say something - but they do point to a certain release and re-evaluation of my abilities. All of these activities brought out something more deep in me. Revealed new parts of myself to my eyes.
I remember sometimes losing my grip on the roach holder. Or, nights where everyone took turns rolling a joint - and, would compare techniques. Filterless. Dan, with the redhaired afro, who listed to Pavement all day long, made pizzas all night, and was so riddled with shyness that he barely spoke a word. The Teller of Penn. He'd sometimes roll two papers together and make us all high for the night. There'd be boys and girls who'd come and go. Taylor, the jock-ish kid who embodied "tall, dark, and handsome." Not too wise, but smart enough. Not as many girls came through the mix. But when they did, those boys fell so hard in love.
We never talked much about that though. We'd talk about scoring, pooling our cash, meeting the kid down at the Jim Carroll show at The Whole (or insert your choice: Scooby Don't, The Strike, J Church, Dillinger Four, Avail, Man Afraid, Propagandhi, Tribe 8). Or, someone would collect, and then all of a sudden between morning classes and your afternoon lab, Dan or Eric or Shane would show up with a big bag of grass. We talked about how to do this, and we talked about doing it, with dry gutter weed, or sticky sweet dope, picking the seeds out, and gazing in awe at how hairy it was, glistening under the one lamp in the room, the individual scent of each bag, or the familiar smell of the same batch in town, how the body would buzz or zone or hunger or fuck. We, also, talked about musical notes, we turned up the music real loud and stuffed a towel under the door, and after a while, we started getting up. Inevitably, we would end up in a slow, shoulder-hunch slinky line to the doors of the dorm. There was always one kid who'd wandered around "the other day" and found this "fucking cool ass spot." Sometimes we jumped fences. Sometimes we hid in shadows. Sometimes we got caught - and were lucky they had a girl with them.
I could never roll a perfect joint. They always looked like a snake had eaten an elephant. Or a hat.
This summer, Mr FD reminded me about this. He liked joints. Ones with tobacco and weed mixed. I could remember this from doing it in Spain. It's a nice high, where instead of the brain turning to trails of lights and feeling unable to move, it feels capable and alert, yet overwhelmingly mellow. I learned how to roll, man, did I learn. Filter, long Rizlas that I wasn't familiar with, loosening the tobacco in a small dish, de-steming the grass, mixing the two into a once-in-a-while perfect cone. We'd listen to music, too. He had the tall speakers, and he'd move the ottoman to the center point of listening, I'd sit and sometimes just rock out - Aidonia from "Jamaica's Most Wanted Mixtape," Baden Powell, Antipop Consortium, Gnarls Barkley, Reverend Charlie Jackson, Ann Peebles, and then old familiars from the college days, Praxis and Parliament.
So, now, I'm rolling my own tonight. Re-learning my way around hash is fun. Celine's 24-year-old roommmate (who sports a 7 o'clock shadow, spiky hair, and used to work for Quicksilver) scored some. Apparently hash is what you smoke when there is no grass around town. It was funny to have drinks with Celine this past weekend and watch four guys his age get high and doll up for going out clubbing.
Interesting. She said a few things while we watched some UK humor flicks. Things like, I'd "never let her before." To my comment that we should have spent more time together hanging out during school. Things like, "Are you comfortable? You're leaning on your hand. You can sit back if you wanna." I found them just friendly gestures at the time. Hm.. I guess I did kiss her and fondle her tits the other night.
So, now, I'm sitting outside on the balcony terrace, it's night cold, and the Eiffel Tower light sends out its beacon like the lighthouse. The stars are out, hazily winking through the light clouds. I can barely differentiate the clouds from the sky but for a faint hint of grey contrasting to a darker dark blue. Yes, one could say, a midnight blue.
And then an interesting thought. There might be nothing that can be done about the past, but the future you can change.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
finished
I have just finished the saving the entire history of every CDOA. I now saved every motherfucking entry I have written.
Now, comes the task of re-reading and sorting them into something that makes sense. Short stories - with photos where available. Poetry - the good, the bad, and the worse. Essays - on politics, current affairs, past memories. Longer stories - of love, of lovers, of ghosts, of dead people.
I've gone as far back as 2001.
That's a lot of fucking words.
Now, comes the task of re-reading and sorting them into something that makes sense. Short stories - with photos where available. Poetry - the good, the bad, and the worse. Essays - on politics, current affairs, past memories. Longer stories - of love, of lovers, of ghosts, of dead people.
I've gone as far back as 2001.
That's a lot of fucking words.
If by, you mean
Thursday, August 29, 2002
life is so beautiful some days
when you find the perfect quotes:
"Drink you under the table? I believe I'll drink myself under the hostess!" .. unknown
"If you mean whiskey, the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.
"However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life's great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into Texas treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it. This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle." ... anon
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Today:
"Anon" has a name and immortality.
"In political discourse, if-by-whiskey is a relativist fallacy where the response to a question is contingent on the questioner's opinions and use of words with strong positive or negative connotations (e.g., terrorist as negative and freedom fighter as positive). An if-by-whiskey argument implemented through doublespeak appears to affirm both sides of an issue, and agrees with whichever side the listener supports, in effect, taking a position without taking a position." (wiki)
"Anon" is actually Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr., a young lawmaker from the U.S. state of Mississippi.
Columnist William Safire popularized the term in his column in The New York Times:
IF BY WHISKY
THE GREAT POLITICAL straddle exemplified by the if-by-whisky speech was attributed here to Gov. Fuller Warren of Florida in the 1950's [incorrect attribution]. An earlier and richer formulation was submitted by Norman L. Simpson of Syracuse, who found an undated and unattributed clipping in his family archives; he dates it to the 1920's, during discussions of the repeal of the Volstead Act prohibiting the sale of liquor:
"[insert the above quote by 'anon']"
The if-by-whisky technique is still in active use. Asked by Jonathan Alter of Newsweek if he was not too sensitive to criticism, Gov. Mario M. Cuomo of New York replied:
"If by thin-skinned you mean very, very quick to respond -- that's what I've done for a lifetime. I'd been a lawyer for more than 20 years. You can't let the comment from the witness pass.
"If [ by thin-skinned ] you're talking about being personally sensitive to criticism, that's a lot of [ expletive ] ."
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The other two Safire columns on that page are awesomeness. Jungle becomes Rain-forest.
life is so beautiful some days
when you find the perfect quotes:
"Drink you under the table? I believe I'll drink myself under the hostess!" .. unknown
"If you mean whiskey, the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.
"However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life's great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into Texas treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it. This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle." ... anon
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Today:
"Anon" has a name and immortality.
"In political discourse, if-by-whiskey is a relativist fallacy where the response to a question is contingent on the questioner's opinions and use of words with strong positive or negative connotations (e.g., terrorist as negative and freedom fighter as positive). An if-by-whiskey argument implemented through doublespeak appears to affirm both sides of an issue, and agrees with whichever side the listener supports, in effect, taking a position without taking a position." (wiki)
"Anon" is actually Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr., a young lawmaker from the U.S. state of Mississippi.
Columnist William Safire popularized the term in his column in The New York Times:
IF BY WHISKY
THE GREAT POLITICAL straddle exemplified by the if-by-whisky speech was attributed here to Gov. Fuller Warren of Florida in the 1950's [incorrect attribution]. An earlier and richer formulation was submitted by Norman L. Simpson of Syracuse, who found an undated and unattributed clipping in his family archives; he dates it to the 1920's, during discussions of the repeal of the Volstead Act prohibiting the sale of liquor:
"[insert the above quote by 'anon']"
The if-by-whisky technique is still in active use. Asked by Jonathan Alter of Newsweek if he was not too sensitive to criticism, Gov. Mario M. Cuomo of New York replied:
"If by thin-skinned you mean very, very quick to respond -- that's what I've done for a lifetime. I'd been a lawyer for more than 20 years. You can't let the comment from the witness pass.
"If [ by thin-skinned ] you're talking about being personally sensitive to criticism, that's a lot of [ expletive ] ."
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The other two Safire columns on that page are awesomeness. Jungle becomes Rain-forest.
Friday, October 16, 2009
October
2003
looking back is still the same:
"i'm tired, but it's also october.
i tried to look up my old blog's october archives but i couldn't get 'em.
october is the worst month.
yes, it's the most beautiful.
yes, i love tossing ideas around for halloween costumes and party plans. (although of late i'm always a catholic school girl.)
but it's also:
anniversary of date rape
anniversary of mike's suicide
anniversary of laura's car crash
anniversary of the commencement of my relations with "the old man"
anniversary of my first girl kiss
anniversary of nostalgic, homesick feelings in spain
anniversary of josh and his preggers ex-girlfriend
anniversary of getting back in dating saddle only to choose kink over the good boy
anniversary of lori's tragic death"
i hate october.
i turn in.
hiberation has a unique meaning for me.
introspection into the deep dark dank corners of my thoughts.
2005
my october is over.
pumpkins were carved again. the car battery died up on the hill again. the stars came out again. i said no again. he said yes. i rolled my eyes to the side and closed them again. we lived at dead end alley again. mike died again. laura suffered a car crash again. and, again, lori, the old man, spain, broken hearts. all over again. covered in ripples of james's sadness.
it is the most melancholy of seasons. the beautifully quiet and solemnly sad month of pumpkins, candles, witches, and ghosts.
looking back is still the same:
"i'm tired, but it's also october.
i tried to look up my old blog's october archives but i couldn't get 'em.
october is the worst month.
yes, it's the most beautiful.
yes, i love tossing ideas around for halloween costumes and party plans. (although of late i'm always a catholic school girl.)
but it's also:
anniversary of date rape
anniversary of mike's suicide
anniversary of laura's car crash
anniversary of the commencement of my relations with "the old man"
anniversary of my first girl kiss
anniversary of nostalgic, homesick feelings in spain
anniversary of josh and his preggers ex-girlfriend
anniversary of getting back in dating saddle only to choose kink over the good boy
anniversary of lori's tragic death"
i hate october.
i turn in.
hiberation has a unique meaning for me.
introspection into the deep dark dank corners of my thoughts.
2005
my october is over.
pumpkins were carved again. the car battery died up on the hill again. the stars came out again. i said no again. he said yes. i rolled my eyes to the side and closed them again. we lived at dead end alley again. mike died again. laura suffered a car crash again. and, again, lori, the old man, spain, broken hearts. all over again. covered in ripples of james's sadness.
it is the most melancholy of seasons. the beautifully quiet and solemnly sad month of pumpkins, candles, witches, and ghosts.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
the footsteps down the hall
There were certain sounds, certain echoes, certain resonance to them.
When dad came to us every three years or so and explained that we'd be moving again.
The military life. People always ask if I liked moving all the time, liked living all over the world. Well, there was nothing to which to compare. I knew no different. And every few years, there he would come. I don't recall my mother telling us. I think she was left to the packing detail, while he often went ahead to establish something -- his work, our lives, a pattern?
It's the same, only different now.
I thought I'd love travelling, moving, carrying my life in a few suitcases and boxes. And, I do. I know very well - as much as my family knows I know, and joke with me that we'll grow annoyed with each other after a couple of months. I'm bred independent. I have no gut instinct for marriage, the house, the picket fence, the 2.5 children, the mortgage, the small city.
But this move. This change. Well, it comes with so much more to it, of course. I wouldn't be packing if my dad weren't sick. But what would I be doing? Who would I be now? We'll never answer this because of how things go now. Destiny? Karma? As it is. And this move, well, it's fucking hard. Hard with a capital H. Am I too old to live on my own without a family to sustain? Am I too tender to be so far?
Tonight, my father encouraged me in applying for certain jobs. All jobs. Anywhere. With travel as it is and internet, why not? But then, why didn't they visit me? Why did they never make it over here? Why did they not come for my graduation? They are building a last house, a house of self-sustaining proportion, of solar and water heat, of environmental friendliness. That could be the reason, although rumor has it that my mother wasn't interested in travelling.
She and I are too alike. We suffer anxiety. We suffer our go-go dancer tendancies. We adore newness but hate making it happen. I am more like my mother than I or she ever intended. I doubt she knows this, but I guess she has hints. After all, we fought like enemies for so long that I think she realized she had been cursed with herself re-born.
So now.
They are my footsteps. My decision to move. My destiny in making.
I don't think I've cried so much as an adult. I almost worry that I have early menopause. I see certain posturing of my parents on Skype and start to stop myself from crying. Yes, I know I'm delayed in development, in growing up, and it's only now, finally, that I realize the importance of family.
But ... well, there is such beauty in freedom, Paris, living.
Ugh. I'm too tired to finish this.
But it's why I find it hard to go outside my apartment. It's too damn beautiful. It's too damn free. And, now, well, now, it's time to be an adult. Grow up. Suck up. Suck it up. Get a pant suit and low heels, go to some big city, and make my payback. And I hate it. I miss my family but I hate the idea of US living. It will crush me. So far as I can see now.
Blah blah. I know this isn't true. I know I'm adaptable, flexible, and in so much love with humanity that I can do anything. But for now, for tonight, I'm crying over a lot of spilled milk that is called lait in French and is beautiful.
[no editing
oh, and a ton of new photos over on Tumblr.]
When dad came to us every three years or so and explained that we'd be moving again.
The military life. People always ask if I liked moving all the time, liked living all over the world. Well, there was nothing to which to compare. I knew no different. And every few years, there he would come. I don't recall my mother telling us. I think she was left to the packing detail, while he often went ahead to establish something -- his work, our lives, a pattern?
It's the same, only different now.
I thought I'd love travelling, moving, carrying my life in a few suitcases and boxes. And, I do. I know very well - as much as my family knows I know, and joke with me that we'll grow annoyed with each other after a couple of months. I'm bred independent. I have no gut instinct for marriage, the house, the picket fence, the 2.5 children, the mortgage, the small city.
But this move. This change. Well, it comes with so much more to it, of course. I wouldn't be packing if my dad weren't sick. But what would I be doing? Who would I be now? We'll never answer this because of how things go now. Destiny? Karma? As it is. And this move, well, it's fucking hard. Hard with a capital H. Am I too old to live on my own without a family to sustain? Am I too tender to be so far?
Tonight, my father encouraged me in applying for certain jobs. All jobs. Anywhere. With travel as it is and internet, why not? But then, why didn't they visit me? Why did they never make it over here? Why did they not come for my graduation? They are building a last house, a house of self-sustaining proportion, of solar and water heat, of environmental friendliness. That could be the reason, although rumor has it that my mother wasn't interested in travelling.
She and I are too alike. We suffer anxiety. We suffer our go-go dancer tendancies. We adore newness but hate making it happen. I am more like my mother than I or she ever intended. I doubt she knows this, but I guess she has hints. After all, we fought like enemies for so long that I think she realized she had been cursed with herself re-born.
So now.
They are my footsteps. My decision to move. My destiny in making.
I don't think I've cried so much as an adult. I almost worry that I have early menopause. I see certain posturing of my parents on Skype and start to stop myself from crying. Yes, I know I'm delayed in development, in growing up, and it's only now, finally, that I realize the importance of family.
But ... well, there is such beauty in freedom, Paris, living.
Ugh. I'm too tired to finish this.
But it's why I find it hard to go outside my apartment. It's too damn beautiful. It's too damn free. And, now, well, now, it's time to be an adult. Grow up. Suck up. Suck it up. Get a pant suit and low heels, go to some big city, and make my payback. And I hate it. I miss my family but I hate the idea of US living. It will crush me. So far as I can see now.
Blah blah. I know this isn't true. I know I'm adaptable, flexible, and in so much love with humanity that I can do anything. But for now, for tonight, I'm crying over a lot of spilled milk that is called lait in French and is beautiful.
[no editing
oh, and a ton of new photos over on Tumblr.]
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
re: Paris is snobby pt.2
Paris is not insensitive or rude. Really, it’s true.
If you get on the metro, and sit down, at 7pm, and you’ve just uhm touched yourself to get off before going to visit your ex-lover, because well, you like him so much but you don’t feel like fucking him because you just fucked a great guy the night before and, while you showered, you want to remember the swell night you had, so you get off on your own, and then you get on the metro, and then, you’re listening - again - to great tunes on your headphones and you happen to smirk to yourself because you realize you still smell like sex, but then you realize that you should look at other things on the metro instead of realizing you smell yourself in all post-excited glory, and you look around, and up, and see… well, see a most beautiful man standing by the pole, and you love his striped sweater and think, “Damn, I love a man with a sexy half-shaved face and a prominent Adam’s Apple.” And then then he looks at you and you blush and smirk some more. And even giggle. And smile.
Well, I’ve heard that Parisians think that random smiling means you’re an idiot. Like, developmentally disabled. Like, retarded.
But you can’t help but smile. Because god he’s cute and shit, you’ve just cum, and life is good right now.
And then, at the next stop you watch him watching and smiling at you and then he moves to sit down over there, but re-directs and sits directly in front of you and says, “Bhalkdfowhfieowfhw” and you take off your headphones and say “Je ne parle pas français,” but you already knew what he was saying, which was like “Hey, what’re you smiling about? What’s so good to smile about? Anything in particular?” And you are too embarrassed to say, “You’re hot in that sweatshirt.” So you just smile and say “C’est la vie.” Which is a horribly over-used French phrase.
Then you find the words to say, I like your sweatshirt and he says something in French with a hand coming at you like a claw. But a sexy claw, like a claw that would tear your clothes off and make horribly fantastic love to you. And you get it - RIGHT! Freddy from Nightmare on Elm Street. And you say, “Freh-dee!” to convey your comprehension that you’re on the same level of what he’s trying to explain.
And he continues to talk to you, saying he only has 2 stops left. And, you’re blushing because you could have said, “I just came a minute ago. I’m on my way to my ex-lover. And you’re fucking hot. But I can’t make time to score your digits because I’m late already.”
So, he gets off the metro. The metro passes by and he’s nowhere in sight. You wonder if he knows what Craigslist Missed Connections is.
His fingers were solid gold.
If you get on the metro, and sit down, at 7pm, and you’ve just uhm touched yourself to get off before going to visit your ex-lover, because well, you like him so much but you don’t feel like fucking him because you just fucked a great guy the night before and, while you showered, you want to remember the swell night you had, so you get off on your own, and then you get on the metro, and then, you’re listening - again - to great tunes on your headphones and you happen to smirk to yourself because you realize you still smell like sex, but then you realize that you should look at other things on the metro instead of realizing you smell yourself in all post-excited glory, and you look around, and up, and see… well, see a most beautiful man standing by the pole, and you love his striped sweater and think, “Damn, I love a man with a sexy half-shaved face and a prominent Adam’s Apple.” And then then he looks at you and you blush and smirk some more. And even giggle. And smile.
Well, I’ve heard that Parisians think that random smiling means you’re an idiot. Like, developmentally disabled. Like, retarded.
But you can’t help but smile. Because god he’s cute and shit, you’ve just cum, and life is good right now.
And then, at the next stop you watch him watching and smiling at you and then he moves to sit down over there, but re-directs and sits directly in front of you and says, “Bhalkdfowhfieowfhw” and you take off your headphones and say “Je ne parle pas français,” but you already knew what he was saying, which was like “Hey, what’re you smiling about? What’s so good to smile about? Anything in particular?” And you are too embarrassed to say, “You’re hot in that sweatshirt.” So you just smile and say “C’est la vie.” Which is a horribly over-used French phrase.
Then you find the words to say, I like your sweatshirt and he says something in French with a hand coming at you like a claw. But a sexy claw, like a claw that would tear your clothes off and make horribly fantastic love to you. And you get it - RIGHT! Freddy from Nightmare on Elm Street. And you say, “Freh-dee!” to convey your comprehension that you’re on the same level of what he’s trying to explain.
And he continues to talk to you, saying he only has 2 stops left. And, you’re blushing because you could have said, “I just came a minute ago. I’m on my way to my ex-lover. And you’re fucking hot. But I can’t make time to score your digits because I’m late already.”
So, he gets off the metro. The metro passes by and he’s nowhere in sight. You wonder if he knows what Craigslist Missed Connections is.
His fingers were solid gold.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
re: Paris is snobby
Just so you know, you’ve got it all wrong. The myth that Paris is cold, rude, insensitive is basically a lie. It’s a front. To keep all the tourists out. Sure, some still get in and have their honeymoon in Tevas and North Face, or worse, British old lady mums who gossip loudly on the metro about every little thing they see.
Regardless, it’s not true that Paris is insensitive or rude.
If you decide to walk home from your lover’s apartment - a good long hike of 5 miles at 1am - because it’s not raining and why not? And then you suddenly break down into tears mid-way through because the music on your headphones is so damn good and your dad is sick with cancer and you have ten boxes waiting to be shipped to the States and your lover has the best cock that you won’t see ever again and Paris is quiet and lovely at night and you can’t hear yourself snort and sob ‘cause the music’s just so good and loud…. There will be a guy who stops, and asks if you’re ok, and you’ll say ça va, ça va, merci, and he’ll reach out and hand you a nice little tissue from his pack.
And, he might even follow you some of the way home. Or, at least to the Seine, because he’s afraid you might purposefully drop yourself in - or maybe some other fantasy he has but never realizes because you keep on walking. Through the Tuileries. Up by the Opera. And up the hill. And up the 101 stairs.
And, my god, wasn’t that so nice of Paris to guide you home, leave you alone, not scare you with strange men or strange cars or strangeness. In fact, how sweet of her to show some kindness.
[posted on tumblr]
Regardless, it’s not true that Paris is insensitive or rude.
If you decide to walk home from your lover’s apartment - a good long hike of 5 miles at 1am - because it’s not raining and why not? And then you suddenly break down into tears mid-way through because the music on your headphones is so damn good and your dad is sick with cancer and you have ten boxes waiting to be shipped to the States and your lover has the best cock that you won’t see ever again and Paris is quiet and lovely at night and you can’t hear yourself snort and sob ‘cause the music’s just so good and loud…. There will be a guy who stops, and asks if you’re ok, and you’ll say ça va, ça va, merci, and he’ll reach out and hand you a nice little tissue from his pack.
And, he might even follow you some of the way home. Or, at least to the Seine, because he’s afraid you might purposefully drop yourself in - or maybe some other fantasy he has but never realizes because you keep on walking. Through the Tuileries. Up by the Opera. And up the hill. And up the 101 stairs.
And, my god, wasn’t that so nice of Paris to guide you home, leave you alone, not scare you with strange men or strange cars or strangeness. In fact, how sweet of her to show some kindness.
[posted on tumblr]
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