Victoria (and every other woman)'s Secret

There is a question that has been perplexing me for quite some time now. I should preface this question by stating that it is not one of a prurient nature (I got that word of off an adult video package):

What's with women walking around in their underwear?

No, I haven't seen a rash of lingerie models prancing through the streets. What I'm getting at, is one comment that I hear frequently in relation to living situations.

"When you move out, I'll probably look for a girl room-mate so I can walk around in my underwear."

"You're going to be gone for the weekend? Call me if you come back early, in case I'm walking around in my underwear."

"The great thing about living on my own is being able to walk around in my underwear."

Do women really walk around in their underwear that much? I hardly ever walk around in my skivvies (I know I don't have any, but for the sake of argument...), and the guys I've lived with only did it first thing in the morning when they walked from the bedroom to the bathroom. Sure, there are those guys who sit in front of the TV in their boxers, scratching their bits, eating pork rinds and watching football. I don't think, however, that these guys pine away for privacy or all male surroundings to indulge in those pastimes.

Granted, a dude laying on the couch in his Calvin's is vastly different than a chick doing the same in her Vickie's. But to hear it from several ladies in my lifetime, it sounds like the first thing they do when they walk in the front door is strip down. I can understand a lady not wanting to be ogled if she decides not to wear a bra under her shirt while she's puttering around the house, but all of these statements ended with the exact phrase, "in my underwear."

Seriously, Bill Moyers needs to get a PBS special on this.

Morespace

More old myspace blogs
Monday, October 22, 2007
Suing god


The most interesting thing about this is that no one has sought to stop this lawsuit from continuing- which was the point the senator was really trying to prove- yet, people are more than willing to hop to Mr/Mrs God's defense, as if s/he/it couldn't manage alone. That implies Mr/Mrs God is either incapable or uncaring- two things that are not possible if Mr/Mrs God is a "perfect" being. By coming to Mr/Mrs God's defense, they are actually repudiating his/her/its existence, and by bringing forth the suit in the first place (you can't sue fictional characters from old books) Ernie Chambers is avowing his faith (as well as that of Nebraska courts, which does bring up the whole "separation of church and state" issue, which I'm too tired to delve into right now...)

Aiming to prove a point about frivolous lawsuits, Ernie Chambers, a Nebraska state senator, sued God earlier this month in state court. The action seeks a permanent injunction ordering God to cease certain harmful activities such as "fearsome floods" and "pestilential plagues." Mr. Chambers asked the court to waive the requirement that the defendant be personally served with the complaint. Because God is omnipresent and omniscient, God would have actual knowledge of the action, Mr. Chambers argued.

Last week, an answer mysteriously appeared at the Douglas County Courthouse.

"Defendant denies that this or any court has jurisdiction...over Him," wrote God's lawyer, "any more than the court has jurisdiction over the wind or rain, sunlight or darkness."

"Defendant admits that He is present in Douglas County, Neb., but no more or less than...any other discernible point in the universe."

Playing the role of God's lawyer: Eric Perkins from Corpus Christi, Texas. Mr. Perkins said that when he heard about Mr. Douglas's lawsuit on the news, he felt compelled to respond. "When I read the complaint, it provoked something deep inside me," said Mr. Perkins, a sole practitioner with a general-litigation practice.

As far as his fee arrangement, with the Almighty, Mr. Perkins was mum. "I can't disclose that on the grounds of attorney-client privilege." He added: "And though my soul could stand to be saved just as much as any other lawyer, I'm not counting on any delayed remuneration from my client."

November 2, 2007

Dia de los Muertos is the new black

This year, as usual, I did not go the Castro for Halloween. Those of you who live in the Bay Area know what I'm talking about. I went the first couple of years I lived here, but even then it was bordering on overkill (figuratively and now literally). I don't want to get into what it has become, and all of the negativity and idiocy involved.

So, for the past five years I have lamented Halloween in SF. There really is nothing like getting dressed up in your wildest and running through the streets with other crazy drunk people.

I'd always had a general working knowledge of Dia de los Muertos- Day of the Dead, Mexico's Halloween, but had never taken part in the celebration, until this year. My dear friend Diana had a going away/Dia de los Muertos party (Diana de los Muertos?), that started with a dozen or so of her close friends and plus-ones having a candle lit ceremony calling out our dead loved ones. After that, we all ran down the alley where she lives and waited for the parade to start, and we would join in "when it felt right."

I had expected a somber event, with wailing grandmothers beating their chests, men in cheap suits with pictures of their dead ancestors pinned to their ties, and children banging pots and pans with no idea of why they were doing it, but secretly enjoying the fact that they were allowed to walk down the middle of the street banging things and screaming without any adults telling them to stop.

Well, that quaint idea was totally wrong.

It's like a low stress Halloween. There's no worrying about your costume, because everybody wears one of three things- all black, all white, or all skeleton. No costume? No Problem- grab a tambourine.

We waited for the Aztec drummers to kick the party into gear, then jumped in the parade. Guinness should be there to record the most people spontaneously doing the Thriller Dance. This must be what the Castro was like fifteen years ago. Sure, there were people drinking and, um, doing other stuff, but there were parents with baby strollers, white haired men with drums, children in costumes, and the requisite half (or more) naked people. I've never had so much fun taking three hours to walk around the block.

Spare Any Change?

Finally, I've realized why I've been in such a foul mood lately...

I'm bored.

With everything.

My friends are the best, my job is crazy but I'm not shoveling manure for $1 a day, I live in a nice enough house with the best roomies ever, but still- I have no inspiration. My brain is starving for something new.

My friend T had a birthday a couple of days ago, and she told me I was one of the most loyal people she knew. Loyalty can be a fault, if not moderated. Look at M, holding herself prisoner in her own apartment because she was loyal, and willing to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. I am loyal, and will stick with people and places till they give me a reason not to (and sometimes even when they do).

Good enough just isn't good enough anymore.

I've forgotten my mantra, "Change is the only constant."

Gay Pair-e

Here's another old myspace blog, from when I went to Paris last year...

Paris, pt I

Day 1 - The Flight

I seriously thought I would wake up at 8am, hop in the shower, shave and be out the door by 8:30

right

When I finally left (9:30) I realized I needed AA batteries for the camera that I never use but everyone insisted I bring along, and that, this being an extended European vacation, I should bring more jimmy hats.

DeLano's Market: Wandered the aisles for a couple of minutes, couldn't find anything, so...

"Hi"
"Hi, how can I help you"
"I'm looking for batteries and condoms"
(very professionally covered pause)
"OK, I think have those in the lock up over here."(looking)"I only have 4 packs of batteries, and am i blind, or do we not have... uh... the other thing?!"(helplessly)"Marnie! Do we have any... uh... come here a sec"(whispers)"Sir, they're over here"

Would you believe, after I got out of there, I realized she gave me AAA batteries?

My flight was on Air Canada. That's Canada as in not in the United States. An international flight, one would think. I was already at the airport an hour later than planned, so the fact that i couldn't find the terminal was a bit distressing. Finally went to information and asked where to go.

Air Canada, which only flies to destinations outside of the US, as in CANADA, is in the domestic terminals.

First leg: US/CAN crew- all announcements in English then repeated in French.

Layover in Montreal: Customs officials look annoyed that I would be in their airport after 8pm. Deli sandwich- who puts shredded cheese on a deli sandwich?

Second leg: CAN/French crew- announcements made with extensive details in French, a little mumbled recap in English.

Oh, and the Boeing 777 is a miracle. Something that big should not be able to fly.

Charles de Gaul Airport: baggage claim conveyor belt goes in more or less a straight line. If you don't get your bags, they go... somewhere else.

RER Train to Paris: Street musician plays the wind-up squeezebox harmonium thingy, "If I Was A Rich Man." I'm most certainly in France.
Decided to get off the train in Paris and wander a bit before going to Bois Colombe. Walked up the steps, and my first sight of Paris proper is, Notre Dame.

My First Parisian Hustler: Guy walks in path, drops a ring out of his sleeve as he pretends to see it on the ground. I'm sure some people might not have noticed there was no ring on the ground before he walked up, but we'll just give him that one.

This all happened in French - "Mister, you dropped your ring"
I don't wear jewelry, but how would he know "No, not mine"
"It's nice, though. Why don't you keep it?"
This is where he got points: he walked away as I kept walking, looking at the ring, wondering what use I had for a cheap fake gold ring that wasn't going to fit me, even if I did wear rings. So, dude walks back like he'd had some moral dilemma, and asks (in French) "I hate to ask but, could you spare a little cash for some food?"

I looked at him as if I had never heard such a thing come out of anyone's mouth.
He said (getting agitated) "Parlais vu Francais? Do you speak English?"
I said, "Si"
"Do you speak Italian?"
"Yes"

At this point, he lost it.

"MONEY, I NEED MONEY! I'M HUNGRY, GIVE ME MONEY!"
"Uh... no. Here's that ring you found. Go sell it and get some money."

The walk to the train to Bois Colombe was a little longer than I expected, but there was good sight seeing and people watching. Finally found the train station, and as long as the walk was, it took me about the same time to find the train platform

AUTOMATED TICKET KIOSK- good idea
AUTOMATED TICKET KIOSK THAT ONLY TAKES COINS AND THERE ARE NO CHANGE MACHINES IN THE STATION- bad idea
MAPS OF EVERY TRAIN AND SUBWAY LINE PASSING THROUGH THE STATION- good idea
NO GUIDE OF WHERE TO FIND EVERY TRAIN AND SUBWAY IN THE STATION- bad idea

Made it to Bois Colombe. Now, I have a little survivalist streak in me. Something that says 'drop me on the corner of any street in any city in the world and I'll figure things out,' so I never called my friend Sabrina to tell her when I would be at her apartment. She wasn't home when I first went to her apartment (which I was able to find without any help, thank you) so I figured I would call her cell phone. My cell won't work internationally, but there are pay phones everywhere in France.

These pay phones, unlike the train kiosks, don't take coins or credit cards, just some weird thing called a 'smartcard' which no store I could find sold.

Did I mention I had to pee?

After standing outside the apartment building like a vagabond for half an hour, i realized the intercom was either not working, or was very quiet.

...and that Sabrina had been home all along.

DAY 2- Lost in Bois Colombe

OK, I really thought I had a good sense of direction and intuition, but this city has kicked my butt. I thought San Francisco was bad, but here, the streets zig-zag, cross another street and get a different name, then go in a circle and put you back where you started. I walked about 2-3 miles, decided to turn back, and ended up walking completely around Bois Colombe, to a city a mile and a half on the other side. Hopefully I can find the shop with the 135e suits again.

I need to find a burrito, and shwarma.

Arabs in Europe are the analogue of Latinos in the US.

Sabrina has a friend, Sammie, who is incapable of speaking slowly or softly, this trait carries over to her driving. There are no lanes on major streets in Paris.

Fascinating

Sammie, Sabrina and her girlfriend (yes, that kind of girlfriend- I don't want to hear it), and I went for a drink on the Champs d'Elysee. It was around 10pm when we got there, and there were more people out than when I'd been there Friday afternoon.

Steak flavored potato chips?

DAY 3- Sunday, the day of rest

Sabrina and Mariana have cooked meals for me consisting of canned food and dehydrated food. I thought French people were all about cuisine?

I tried to go shopping, and found that everything is closed on Sunday. I mean EVERYTHING. I found one shop that had some pitiable produce and... you guessed it- tons of canned food!

DAY 4- TTD

Tonight, Terence Trent D'arby is playing a show. TTD in Paris- classic! I have caught a bit of a cold, the clouds have finally broken , so I need to get outside...

Went to the St Lazarre area, cool shopping district, though a bit touristy. Happened along a back alley and saw the first biological female prostitue I'd seen in a while (SF people know what I'm talking about). I wanted to go to the Artelano showroom and maybe say hi to Tatjana (LIMN people know who I'm talking about), but the showroom is open something crazy like:

Monday - 12:30 - 1:45/2:30 - 3:15
Tue-Fri - 11:30 - 3:30/4:30 - 7:15
Saturday - if we feel like it, maybe sometime
Sunday - are you kidding?

So, I didn't make it Monday, but I want to try again before I go.

OBSERVATIONS

I'm in France at a train station, and Foriegner is playing over the PA - what's wrong here?

I see more baby carriages here than I do in Noe Valley, and I didn't think that was possible.

Elderly Frenchmen look at you funny if you haven't polished your shoes.

Young Frenchmen still wear berets.

I never thought I would see a Frenchman at a Terence Trent D'arby show in Paris with an Iron Maiden wallet. Why would I think I would see that anyway?

TERENCE TRENT D"ARBY @ LE MOROQUINERE

This is why I want to move to Europe- A packed house on a Monday night to see someone who hasn't had a hit in nearly 20 years play all-new, experimental material. In SF, maybe 150 people would show up to hear him sing 'Wishing Well,' but you couldn't pay 300 people to listen to songs they'd never heard, no matter how good they are.

DAY 5

Got up early for some reason that wasn't too clear to me, and realized as I went outside, that the sun is entirely in the wrong place. I'm not used to this longitude.

Sabrina and Mariane (S&M, as I've come to refer to them) watch a damn lot of MTV. I haven't had cable in a long time, but I'd heard of the show 'Pimp my Ride.' I didn't know that there was a show that should be called 'Pimp my Daughter.' Seriously- a young guy goes out on dates with three mothers, who each try to convince him to go on a date with her daughter. I just got old.

The apartment is in need of paint and furniture and appliances and plumbing fixtures, so we took a trip to the French version of Home Depot. I suppose that it was much cooler than Home Depot because, it's French. I bought wallpaper.

I got it into my head that I wanted a burrito, so Mariana, who just got her license (it isn't the same right of passage as in the States) drove all through Paris with her GPS guide trying to find a Mexican restaurant. I should mention that Mariana used GPS because, even as a French native, Paris makes absolutely no sense. Needless to say, we didn't find the restaurant, so we went to a cafe. I ate salad with some warm mystery meat, a boiled egg, and a potato. It was better than it sounds, and totally normal to the girls. My entree was baked salmon in creme sauce. Tres bon.

Sabrina and I headed off for the Catacombs via subway. I should mention that Sabrina, even as a French native, stared at the subway map for 5 minutes and finally admitted she wasn't sure if she could figure out how to get there.

The Catacombs were closed.

We decided to go to the Louvre and asked information whether it would be better to take a train or the subway to get to there. They fought behind the desk, snatching a map out of each others' hands before deciding on the bus.

The Louvre was closed.

Sabrina and I went to meet Mariana at Gare St Lazarre. She was waiting for us at Starbucks.

Next thing you know, there'll be a Walgreens in the Louvre.

OBSERVATIONS

I haven't seen a skateboard in 5 days.

Life is so much easier wth tax calculated into store prices. Is it really that hard to do?

Despite my previous statements, 'Pimp my Ride' is palatable when dubbed in French.

Video stores are automated, supporting R. Buckminster Fuller's idea of removing unproductive jobs through technology.

Is there more use of common sense in France? Train doors are manually opened by commuters, sometimes before the train comes to a complete halt. In the US we say, "that's not child-proof," or, "the elderly or handicapped could fall out." The French say, "if you aren't capable of stepping out of a moving train, don't stand in the doorway."

Day 6

Returned to the Artelano showroom, and it was actually open this time. They have some really cool stuff that goes far beyond what LIMN shows. Speaking of LIMN, as the largest retailer of European furniture in North America, one would think it would be well known in the design world. No one I spoke with at the Artelano showroom had any idea what I was talking about.

The Artelano showroom is couple of blocks from Invalides, which is a series of tombs and museums dedicated to French military history. I didn't find out until later that Napoleon was laid to rest there, or I might have actually gone inside.

In the same relative neighborhood was the Rodin Museum, which I don't even begin to have words to describe.

Day 7

I'm actually feeling like I'm done here. I could stay for months, decades, or years, but having a few more days seems like too much. I'll have to keep that in mind for next time.

Shopping districts are the same everywhere:

Women's shop
Petite women's shop
Plus size women's shop
Maternal woman's shop
Bridal women's shop
Women's lingerie shop
Women's shoes shop
Men's tailorsuitactivewearunderwearshoe shop

How can I not be able to find cool men's clothes in PARIS!

I already had a predaliction towards European women, but it may well become an obsession

I'm sure I did more than attempt to shop today?

Day 8 Lunch at Chez Asselli

Sabrina's mother invited us over for lunch today. She's Algerian, but speaks decent Arabic, so when I couldn't figure out how to say something in French, I had that to fall back on. Funny thing is, she understands English pretty well, but didn't tell me until I'd been in her house for an hour and a half. Sabrina also has two sisters and one niece, who loves to dance. Her older sister kind of looks like one of my cousins.

We may go back tomorrow for couscous

I finally got some of the famous French attitude:

INTERIOR - GAUTIER COUTURE STORE
(a 12'x12' room packed with gaudy Jean Paul Gautier clothes, staffed by 3 employees having a vibrant conversation which stops the instant the door opens)

KEENAN: (unsure) Bonsoir monsieurs?
CLERKS: (with a sniff) Bonsoir.
CLERK 1: (speaks French, but gets no response) YOU ARE AMERICAIN? I CAN HELP YOU?
KEENAN: uhh...non...merci...au revoir
(EXIT)

I was wrong about not being able to find cool clothes in France. I can't afford cool clothes in France.

Day 9

Everything is still closed on Sundays.

I went to Chatelet, a very international district of Paris, which has some fascinating Modern architecture. I especially like the Modern Art Museum.

Later that afternoon Sabrina took me to the Eiffel Tower...

...in the rain

We decided to walk up the 580 steps to the second deck (the 3rd deck was only accessible via long line to the elevator). Despite my aversion to all things toursity, I really did enjoy climbing the Tower and seeing the views of Paris, and remembering that this is one those wonder-of-the-world things.

Did I mention how much I love rain?

To all those who demanded pictorial documentation, forgot to change the batteries in my camera before going to the Eiffel Tower, so, no pics.

I think Bois-Colombes is District B13 (Those who know what I'm talking about, know what I'm talking about)

The subway isn't any more difficult than other cities, just more complex. One just needs to have general geographic knowledge of Paris (which I had after about 2 days), and some idea of what is close to where one is going. Even Parisian natives will never have the entire system committed to memory, so don't be afraid to look at the maps.

Day 10

I went back to Chatelet, and found that what I thought was an art pavilion, is actually the top of an underground shopping mall (Le Halles).

The French can rock a hot dog. Any one who knows me, knows I don't care much for hot dogs, but the boulangeries here do things to hot dogs that will never see the inside of a baseball stadium. Start with a 15", mystery meat-free, all beef dog. Place it in a half size baguette. Cover the whole thing in as much cheese as you can find, then bake it to golden brown perfection. I wish I hadn't waited 10 days to eat one of these.

I can't leave without one of those cable knit turtleneck sweaters with the buttons on the shoulder. I might get stopped at customs if I don't have one.

Christmas is in the air, and unlike in the States, it feels like there is a holiday coming, and not a series of big sales.

Americans do not have a lock on smelly, crazy, homeless people. This dude on the train is quacking at people if they come too close to him... Quacking. Daffy Duck freakout style.

Oh, and I got the cable knit turtleneck sweater with the buttons on the shoulder.

Day 11

Spent quite a large portion of my day looking for touristy gifty things

Public transit workers are ready to go on strike... Time for me to go.

Really.

So I left at 8am to get to CDG by 11:30. Should take 45-60 minutes.

SNCF from Bois-Colombes to Gare St. Lazarre, no problem.

Bois-Colombes to Chatelet, no problem.

Chatelet to CDG...

Chatelet to CDG...

Chatelet to CDG...

Chatelet to CDG...

Okay, I better get a cab.

35e ($50) later, "Sorry, boarding for your flight has closed, and it is the last flight of the day. You will have to book a flight for tomorrow."

"...oh..."

"...ok..."

It's happy hour in Dubai.

The waitress at the airport coffee shop would fit in in any truck stop across the United States, if she wasn't French.

I finally broke down and ate the first meal at McDonald's in years, and I'm doing it in Charles De Gaul airport. Kinda makes it feel OK.

A lot of people fly from Paris to Israel, they seem to have flights hourly.

Would there be domestic and international terminals in European airports? I'm just thinking that France is a little bigger than Wisconsin, so what would be the point?

There are a few other people spending quality time in the airport tonight. We've each taken our own waiting room-booth-kiosk-vitrine. It is an interesting synchronicity: sleep for 45 minutes, stare off into space, one of the neighbors walks by, read, be one of the neighbors
walking by everyone else, go back, and repeat.

Day 11 1/2

I'm pretty sure it is Thursday morning, stumbling through the duty-free with a bottle of Absinthe (yes, my final destination is Toronto). On the plane. So delusional I wonder if they can stop by my house on the way.

Toronto is pretty from the sky.

I'm going home

I have a gig tomorrow.

Uniforms

I don't believe in astrology. However, I do believe in the Vinson Theory of Astrolological Relativity. Don't bother googling it, I just made up the name, but a friend of mine did come up with a theory that explains the significance of being born at different times of the year.

About 70% of the Earth is water. 97% of that water is in the oceans. The amount of water in any given part of the ocean at any given time (the tide) is controlled by the position of the sun and the moon. These celestial bodies move this massive amount of water enough to change its levels by a few feet to several yards every day, depending on the time of year, and have an effect on the ecological system of the entire planet. Low and high tides in January are measurably different than low and high tides in June. It would stand to reason, humans, who are 60% water, are equally affected, even if it is a bit more subtle.  If you accept that logic, then it isn't much of a stretch to say that the variations of the sun and moon's gravitational pull during the year will have dramatically different affects on our developing minds while we are in the womb.

Those effects are what would produce different personality types at different times of the year.

We are all different types of people. What gets me, is how everybody has to fit in a box; even in laid-back, progressive, open-minded San Francisco. Here, one has to deal with reverse engineered bias and stereotyping. Don't try to tell me that a group of glammed out Marina girls wouldn't get just as much derision and scorn walking into Zeitgeist as a group of skinny-jeaned Mission hipsters would get walking into Matrix Filmore. Why is it so hard to believe that both groups of people just might share broad tastes? They just might listen to the Descendents as much as Coldplay. They might drink just as much PBR and 2 buck Chuck as they do Chimay and Hoya de Cadenas 2002. They might have sleeve tats and Prada in the closet.

I would almost rather deal with people who know their douchebag potential, than people who pretend to be broad-minded, yet are just as narrow of vision as the people they shun.

The Nuclear Option

I've always believed there are two types of people- people that believe there are two types of people, and people who don't. I am both immoveable object and unstoppable force in the latter camp. However, for the sake of having a blog more than four sentences long, I will say there are two types of people in the world- those who commune with nature, and those who believe wearing flip-flops is never an option.

I went hiking once on a playa in New Mexico wearing silk pajamas. My idea of communing with wildlife is people watching at a bridge & tunnel bar at happy hour on a Friday. The best thing about the great outdoors is that it makes me truly appreciate temperature controlled buildings and chilled martini glasses. On the other hand- wearing a flashlight strapped to your head may be practical at night, but it looks mental. Why does all camping gear have to be orange and grey?

I went camping last weekend, and a lot of people think that it is an exceedingly uncharacteristic thing for me to do. Those people didn't read the last post, so they don't know that I'm a superhero, and I do what I want. I'm not a survivalist, I am a survivor. I don't believe in the impossible, I believe in things that just haven't been figured out yet. So yes, I pitched a tent in the dark, I cooked over an open flame, and drank cocktails without ice. 

But I DID NOT wear flip-flops.

Mood Rings and myspace things

I was in such a bad mood last week, a homeless woman said to me, "life isn't that bad."

She's right, it isn't, and it wasn't at the time, but now I know how to avoid getting asked for spare change every ten steps. On the note (D#), what is spare change? I don't put money in my back pocket just in case the money in my front pocket breaks. If I do break a bill, I plan on keeping all the pieces anyway.

On the next note (E), I'm taking a myspace leave of absence. I don't want to delete the profile, because there are a few people I only keep in touch with there, but I have peeled the whole profile to the bare bones. There were a couple of decent blogs, and I don't want to lose them, so here's a couple bonus track reissue myspace blogs:

Rilke: April 23, 2008

My first true love gave me Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet. We were kids and old souls, the both of us. She gave me the book with the symbiotic understanding that I would read the following passage, know that it was the most important thing in the book and the only reason she wanted me to read it, and agree that we couldn't stay together. It was absolutely the right thing to do, I don't regret it, and I hope one day my life might be large enough...

"...young people, who are beginners in everything, are not yet capable of love: it is something they must learn. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered around their solitary, anxious, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love. But learning-time is always a long, secluded time ahead and far on into life, is solitude, a heightened and deepened kind of aloneness for the person who loves. Loving does not at first mean merging, surrendering, and uniting with another person (for what would a union be of two people who are unclarified, unfinished, and still incoherent - ?), it is a high inducement for the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world in himself for the sake of another person; it is a great, demanding claim on him, something that chooses him and calls him to vast distances. Only in this sense, as the task of working on themselves ("to hearken and to hammer day and night"), may young people use the love that is given to them. Merging and surrendering and every kind of communion is not for them (who must still, for a long, long time, save and gather themselves); it is the ultimate, is perhaps that for which human lives are as yet barely large enough."

KLM has (not) left the bulding

KLM hadn't rocked it in a while, but not for lack of trying. M was apparently trying to rack up miles for a vacation in Australia by flying back and forth to Seattle every couple of days. K&L kept getting the wires crossed. Finally, there were 3 days between Seattle trips, K&L had gotten sleep, and KLM were going to rock it...

if M would answer her cell...

or her land line...

or a text...

email...?

Miranda?

She finally called last night:

"Hey, it's Miranda"
"Hey, how are you?"
"OK, I just saw that you called?"
"Yeah, Lisa and I were going to get a drink... wanted to see what you were up to..."
"Well... I'm kinda locked in my apartment."
"Huh?"
"This dude broke into my apartment and slapped me in the face and he has my keys. So I have the door deadbolted, but I can't leave.*"
"WHAT!"
"Yeah, I know. So, I was wondering if you could do me a huuuge favor."
"Of course."
"Couldyougetmeanewdoorknob?ThelandlordisuselessandIcalledthelocksmith
buttheysaiditwouldbe$600andIdon'thaveitIcannotphysicallydothat.I'lltotally
payforitandI'llgiveyoubeer.NobodywillhelpmeandI'vebeenstuckinherefor
threedays."
"Sure, I'll be right over."

"...really...?"

"Yeah, there's a Cole Hardware on the way to your place. I'll be there in a bit."

"You are my hero."


Yes, she called me a hero. L said I was a superhero. I don't know what this world has come to, when helping a friend in need becomes a heroic deed. This is one reason why I'm not that interested in having children. I don't want to raise a responsible, loyal, honest and good person that will help everyone and make the world a better place, only to have a bunch of disasters for friends that can't be counted on to bring a freakin' doorknob.


*This story is M's to tell. It's much less dangerous, but just as scary as it sounds.

Alicia, Susie, Ash, Faith, Rachael, Annika, Samar, Jamie

Continuing with the theme of "Egg," this pretty much sums up my feelings of every romantic relationship I have ever had.

My college friend Bill was in the best band that no one ever heard of, and was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Though I always say I don't have favorites of anything, because everything brings something different to the table, the song "Luminous Crush," and the album Vortex Flower, by the band Space Team Electra is, are, was, and will be something never far from my ears. The words were written by Myshell Prasad, but it feels like they were stolen from my own brain...

I've seen an angel lose it's wings in flight before

I'll turn your cages into swinging open doors

I'll be the silver ribbon lining every cloud

But simple truths are what you never have allowed

I waited for you from my castle on the moon

I thought I'd give my apprehensions all to you

While I was freezing in that luminary burn

I walked the empty corridors behind your words

It seems like I just wasn't meant to follow through

And all the ways I love are not of any use to you

I tried to give my mind and heart and soul and all of it away

But you don't understand a single word I say

To the L in KLM:

This was the private Paris blog on myspace.

Eggs

I don't know what to call it.

Character flaw

Bad habit

Predilection

Natural predisposition

Polysyllabic synonym for stupid

However one may label it, I have to put a lid on it. I have to stop putting all my eggs in one basket. Actually, no. I have to stop putting the golden egg in one basket. I haven't even had a golden egg, they've all been gold plated, and once the paint chips off, I realize I have nothing but a plain old egg that has been sitting out too long and started to smell funny. There I was, putting all this emotional intensity into having the omelette of my dreams, and now I got a rotten egg. Before anyone reading this starts thinking I consider them rotten eggs, understand that I am all about the omelette- cracking the shell and getting to what is underneath. So really (in case these metaphor wasn't obtuse enough*), what I'm after is the goose that lays the golden egg, so we can make the perfect omelette. Though that would be an extra perverse form of cannibalism on the goose's part.

I'm getting sidetracked- the geese in my life have laid eggs that I inevitably turn into golden eggs in my mind, regardless of the goose's feeling in the matter. What I think I need to do, is not hold one goose above all others in anticipation of the golden egg (and the perfect omelette), and not let one goose get my gander, whatever that means. Ducks lay eggs, chickens lay eggs, fish lay eggs, ostriches lay eggs, penguins lay eggs, dinosaurs lay eggs, some guy in Bulgaria laid an egg, according to the National Inquirer. Point is, I can be very intense, and very obsessive, and while a serious attention to detail can make a great omelette, I have to remember that the egg is a gift from the right goose, and that is where a perfect omelette begins.

I can't imagine how bizarre my metaphors would get if I took a serious interest in mind altering drugs...

Stop Worrying and Learn to Love Bad Moods

I am in a bad mood.

I've been moody for a couple weeks now. Funny thing is, I like bad moods. Not that I want to be in a bad mood all the time- I don't want to drink peanut butter milkshakes every day either. When I get into a bad mood, I dig in. I get bitter, bitchy, mean, and nasty. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry. I don't trust people that are happy all the time. How does anyone know how good the peaks are without going through the valleys? Can happiness really be appreciated without understanding it's opposite?

When I'm happy, I float. I get witty, warm, compassionate, caring and kind. I revel in how good it feels, because I know how bad bad can be.

So don't try to cheer me up, I'll be fine.

Eventually.

Regarding Same-Sex Marriages

Yes, I have stated in writing that marriage is an antiquated tradition blah, blah, blah. Wubba wubba wubba, deedle deedle dee. Nonetheless, whose marriage would you rather attend?

www.youtube.com/watch?v=XK44eiCrPJg

or

www.youtube.com/watch?v=URfuZGIGO8g

An Imagined conversation...*

(phone rings)

me: Hello?

her: Hey, it's me.

me: Hi, what's up? What can I do for you?

her: "What can I do for you?" Oh, god. I was hoping you wouldn't be mad at me. I know I kinda fell off the face of the earth. I just wanted to know if you wanted to get together and watch a movie?

me: I'm not mad. You should know that I could never be mad at you.

her: But...?

me: But what? I'm not mad... It's a little strange. I mean, we never have talked about any of this, and I don't know what's been going through your mind, but I... I know I said I was cool with us hanging out, and movie night is cool, but it's also been frustrating and a bit painful. It's almost like nothing has changed, but since all we've had is a couple of superficial emails, I still feel unsure and in the dark. 

I can't go on with this. It's way to passive aggressive for me. I say I'm over it, but obviously I'm not. 

yes, I stole this idea from the M in KLM - http://blog.mmoure.com/

How Australia Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Drunks

Handy Hints For Picking a Drunk

by Linda Silmalis

The Sunday Telegraph, Australia

New South Wales bureaucrats have drawn up an official list of intoxication symptoms, so pub owners can tell when patrons are drunk.

'Cos you know pub owners have never seen drunk people before

Among the 39 steps towards drunkenness are: "bumping into furniture," "sleeping at a bar or table" and "inability to find one's mouth with a glass."

39 steps? They didn't know it's a 12 step plan? Or did they get that far and then need to go have a couple drinks for "research purposes?"

The intoxication guidelines, drawn up by the NSW Office of Liquor and Gaming, were distributed to club and pub managers last week. Staff are supposed to use them in determining when to refuse alcohol to patrons.

"Gosh Ollie, I think he's drunk!"

"Oh criminy Stan! We'd better check the list, or we'll never know for sure!"

Drafted in response to tough new liquor laws introduced in NSW, the guidelines also recommend that clubs and pubs provide free food and bottled water to drinkers, in a bid to curb alcohol related violence.

So, if I go to Australia to get verschnickered, they'll GIVE ME A FREE DINNER too?

Vacation all I ever wanted/Vacation time to get away...

Under the laws, managers are required to remove drunk patrons from the premises and stop them from re-entering for 24 hours - or face $11,000 fine. Number one on the list of 39 signs of intoxication is slurred words, followed by rambling or unintelligible conversation. Bar staff are also urged to be on the lookout for patrons fumbling change, being rude, argumentative and aggressive, and those who cannot stand or who fall down.

They forgot "air drumming to 'Sister Christian,'" "dancing on the bar, then saying, 'somebody help me down," "screaming woooooooo at the top of their lungs" and "blonde women twirling their hair and saying 'I'm soooo drruunnnk!"

Club patrons seen as "overly friendly" or exuberant could also soon find themselves shown the door, as well as those who vomit.

Uhh...

If a patron fails to leave, managers have been advised to contact police in order to avoid being fined. The department said the guidelines were drafted to help bar staff form a reasonable belief that a person is intoxicated. However, it warned that the list was neither exhaustive nor conclusive.

Which is why I wrote this blog ;-)

Now I'm going to go get a drink...

July 4th, US Man Day

I was hanging out with my friend M (not the M in KLM) at Amber last night. He was a little depressed because the next day was the 4th of July. Why would Independence Day be depressing? He was depressed because he's British. Not as if he thought that by simply being British, he should have been King of The Americas, or some... uh, actually... sorry, he did think that by simply being British (and drunk) that he should have had sovereignty over what wouldn't have been called the United States had the Brits won what wouldn't have been called the Revolutionary War*.

This is M's first 4th in the States, and while many United Statesians believe that everyone in the world is familiar with all things United Statesish, that's not true. When I was asked what we do on ID4, I told him that we cook meat and blow stuff up. It's a decidedly masculine holiday, isn't it? I'm pretty certain that throwing raw meat on an open flame while drinking beer was not done by any of the leading ladies in Sex and the City. I'm also pretty doubtful that "How to Blow Up a Watermelon With an M80" will be on the next Oprah. Really, the only way the 4th of July could be more masculine is if men went with Ted Nugent to shoot wild hot dogs with a crossbow and cooked them on the hood of a '67 Mustang that would be cleaned afterwards by the Hooters Bikini Team. Then, at night, men would gather in baseball stadiums to play air guitar to Guns n' Roses doing a cover of Springsteen's "Born in the USA" before a game of dodgeball with firecrackers, and end the evening with Cindy Crawford eating an Eskimo Pie, naked on the roof of the Empire State Building.

America, F**k Yeah!



*Not having a revolutionary war would also mean Purple Rain wouldn't have happened, since there wouldn't be Prince & the Revolution, and Adam Ant wouldn't have a career at all... maybe that part wouldn't be so bad ;-)

Senatus consultum de Bacchanalibus

OK, I've been single for a long time. This was not a conscious decision, I didn't come to any conclusions or weigh any evidence for or against anything- it just rolled out like that.

My entire adult life, I've believed that marriage is an antiquated institution, and there are enough children in the world that I don't need to make one from scratch. That attitude may be a deal breaker for some, and may be catnip for others. For me, it isn't relevant to being in a committed relationship. T&P set the bar by being together for years, saying no to marriage and kids, then limboing under the bar to get married anyway. Then there's P&A, who jumped into marriage head first with a wedding party that made Bacchanalia look like a Thanksgiving parade, but also was where I have never (before or since) heard the words "I love you" spoken with more emotional content. It comes down to two sides of the same coin, and you either want to be with someone or you don't.

On that note, I have made a decision on whether I want to be with someone or not, and whether I want to be with someone or not.

First interpretation: It's high time I got me one o' them ladyfriends.

Second interpretation: Here's where things get... difficult...

(and rather personal)

She and I have never talked about "us," so writing about it doesn't seem too brazen. I'll be brief and rather vague about it in a run-on sentence. Here it goes:

I was crazy about her from the beginning but she was dating someone so I let it go until I found out she wasn't dating someone anymore so I went for it and thought it was going well till she told me about the other other dude but she still wanted to be friends and I said OK because I'm not a bitter, resentful, aggro-dude (or I'm a naive shlub), but now I think we really can't because it's doing the same thing over and over again, knowing full well that it won't turn out the way I want but hoping that it will anyway, which is insane and since I'm only crazy, I should step away from the woman before I start to need therapy.