Self-explanatory. Be back in August.


500 mg of feathery hope

The Complete Norton Anthology of Emily Dickinson, Post-Zoloft Prescription (Table of Contents)

Including: "Today’s a good day for stuff" and "Kittens make me smile."

Though the titles are amusing in themselves (I also noticed that the meter was inconsistent with Dickinson’s standard first lines, but perhaps her new outlook on life has given her berth to explore some rhythmic variations, yes?), my favorite part is in the comments.

"Mike from Glens Falls" suggests that the play, "The Belle of Amherst," would more accurately portray the poet if it went like this:

  • "The curtain opens on the interior of her home in Amherst. A pair of
    feet come down the staircase at the back and pause. A head bends down
    and sees the audience. The feet go back up the staircase. The audience
    can then sit looking at the empty set for as long as they like."

I would totally pay $8 to see that.

Turn around, bright eyes

One year ago, I was listening to: Mason Jennings, Supergrass, XTC, Dave Holland, The Mars Volta, Glen Philips and Teitur (live on XM Loft Sessions), and Snow Patrol. (A friend and I had also splurged on a $1.99 used copy of a Jesus Jones album, which we later saw at Virgin Records new for $18.99, which may indicate to you the extensively impressive quality of the music, but in fact is simply further proof of how true it is that fools and money are soon parted– but we only listened to a few tracks once or twice and since I’ve lost the CD. So it doesn’t count.)

One year ago, I had just returned to Las Vegas from San Diego. One year ago, I strongly believed that I would be in Vegas for no more than a few months, four or five at the outside, but by 2005 I would definitely be employed somewhere as an editor at some company somewhere in Southern California. Or San Francisco. Or somewhere along the California coast. You know, one of *those* cities. There I would be, biding my time until I felt inspired enough to apply to Columbia so I could get my master’s in journalism.

One year ago, I was newly single and bemoaning the loss of my boyfriend, who was perhaps almost as completely wrong for me as the boyfriend who had preceded his existence in my life. Which means that one year ago, I was meeting and seeing and dating more men (boys? males?) than I can count on my two hands. Which means that one year ago, I was incredibly lonely regarding matters of the heart.

But it was interesting, one year ago. One year ago, another guyfriend of mine had given me copies of the aforementioned Snow Patrol and Glen Phillips/Teitur albums, insisting that I listen to them, insisting that they were incredibly good, insisting that I’d love them.

It took a week or two, but I eventually heeded his advice and, indeed, fell in love with both albums.
Snow Patrol, by the way, is a band that hails from Ireland. So one year ago, I decided to fall in love with all things Irish.

Two weeks later, I would meet a New Zealand transplant who, incidentally, had just come from living in Ireland for a year or so and proclaimed it one the best places he’d ever lived in. Being a New Zealander and all, he had an accent.
And one year ago, I was a sucker for British-based accents. And Irish accents, but those were in limited supply, as try though I might, I couldn’t find any strapping young Irish men for the life of me.

Guy New Zealand (who played rugby for one of the local teams, prompting my soon-to-be editor-in-chief to refer to him as "Blackjack") deepened my interest in said all things Irish, and my STB EIC also happened to be a regular patron at some of the local Irish pubs.
One year ago, I was still underage. So one year ago, I considered myself lucky to know someone who knew the guy at the door of a popular Irish pub and who could thereby get me in. On a busy Saturday night. When a "traditional Irish band" would be playing, as they did every weekend.

One year ago, I didn’t have a clue what the hell "traditional Irish music" was. Though I did have a sneaking suspicion that covers of "500 Miles" and "Gin and Juice," weren’t it.

One year ago, I fell in love with a lifestyle and a social network that would ultimately lead me down a path I never thought I would travel, a path on which I would encounter The Guy, who would in turn lead me down yet another unforeseen path which I traverse to this day.

I don’t know where I would be in my life had I stubbornly held fast to my dreams of one year ago. I don’t know if I would have gotten hired somewhere in CA after all, if I would still be working in the media world (I certainly wasn’t able to stand it very long out here), if i would be in a happier or better place, if I would be with someone who made me happy, if I would have such a reliable and varied group of friends. I don’t know that my life would be more fulfilling than it is now. I don’t know that I would have as much optimism and determination and drive regarding both my personal and professional life, as I do now.

But what I really don’t know is, why I can’t stop crying as I listen to "Final Straw." Why, when "Grazed Knees" starts to play, my heart feels like it’s breaking into a million pieces and I find myself longing for– what? For one year ago? For a time when I had nothing, compared to what I have now? For hot summer nights that could prove to be either thrilling and endlessly delightful or devastating and endlessly bleak?

One year ago, I had no idea how much one year could change my life.

Feelin’ hot! hot! hot! (oo-oooh)

Fun times with Cholula hot sauce:

1. Apply hot sauce to hot-sauce-appropriate food. This would include scrambled eggs, hash browns, buttered toast, pizza, or slices of cheese laid on top of Wheat Thins. This would *not* include (and I don’t care WHAT that back of the Tabasco bottle says) sushi.

2. Consume said food.

3. Allow mouth to satisfyingly catch on fire.

4. Rinse.

5. Repeat.


I like to think of this as the Joining of the Elementals ritual: a nice combination of earth (food, which once hailed from the ground), air (the pesistent inhaling and exhaling as you try to breathe out the flames on your tongue), fire (hot sauce, enough said) and water (self-explanatory).

I’m so addicted to Cholula. Better than coffee, this stuff! Whoo.

Life beyond the streets

My shoulders hurt.

Men: Imagine committing yourself to masturbating, nothing but masturbating, for a couple of hours straight. We’ll assume you’ve got plenty of lube on hand, because I’m trying to focus on one kind of pain, and I don’t need to bring chafing into this example.

Women: Imagine committing yourself to giving handjobs for a couple hours straight. Men, don’t imagine this, because this is an example regarding PAIN, not "What would I buy if I had a million bucks?"

Mormons: Um. Imagine… imagine picking daisies, hundreds of daisies, millions of daisies, at 50 daisies per minute, for a couple hours straight. Yeah.

So, men, women, (Mormons) imagine. Keep imagining. Feel the aches in your shoulders yet? Feel your arms start to protest indignantly at your persistently forcing them to move up and down, feel your wrists start to tighten and burn? Well, that’s the feeling you get when you’ve been sanding long strips of baseboards all afternoon. And a whopping 30 hours later, I STILL FEEL IT.

But I was thinking, you know, hookers probably have some good experience in the whole high-endurance-handjob-giving department. When plastic surgery could no longer guarantee them continued employment, I’m thinking they might be able to find a line of work in a sanding-wood career.

kit, hags

The thing about having friends who keep blogs as public daily-life journals: it’s kind of like deciding, do I want to go out of my way to get into this special sneak preview of this blockbuster movie, or should I just wait for it to be wide-released in all the theaters?– I can either make the effort to talk to my friends on a regular basis and see what’s going on in their lives, or I can just wait for them to write about it on their blogs and get the generic version of their various tales, ranging from sordid to ho-hum to candid to catastrophic.

I’m sorry to say that I usually opt for the public release. But then, I also opt to deliver information about my own life to my friends in the same way. Whether that’s a lack of effort on my part to contact them and say, "So, this is what I’ve been up to!"– or a lack of effort on their part, or maybe just a lack of interest on both parts– I don’t know.

Welcome to the modern era, when your best friends learn about your life at the same speed as internet junkies and pervert strangers the world around.

MIA, yo

Will be motherhoofin’ busy for the next couple of days ("couple" being a relative term in my universe than can span anywhere from 2 to 16,744) thanks to work and my damnable compulsion to always, always, spread myself too thin (but isn’t there a saying that goes, "You can never be spread too thin, too rich, or too cheese-on-crackers"?). Have pre-posted something for Tuesday, will try to get something up on Friday, until then, amuse yourself over at kottke or at dy.

Happy Let’s-Just-Be-Friends Day

So, today marks the occasion in which America turned to England and said, "Look, it’s not you, it’s me, really, I just– I just need some space here, okay?"

An ugly battle ensued, involving throwing things at each other and screaming and arguing over who got custody of the indentured servants and whether or not America would keep doing the powedered wig thing, and then poof! America gave birth to a nation and England was suddenly very much relieved that it wouldn’t have to participate in any alimony transactions. And then said nation started to grow up and England swore up and down that it sure as hell wasn’t the father of this weirdo country that didn’t know how to spell words like "colour’ and "realise," or pronounce "aluminium" or "primer" (::AHEM::).

Anyway. Happy birthday, country o’ mine, and happy birthday, city o’ mine (100 years of face lifts and artificial enhancement!). Ya done good, kid, here’s a twenty and keep up the hard work, etc., etc., etc.

Bare necessities: found

All I really need in order to live comfortably in a house, is working high-speed internet, working air conditioning, and a garage-enclosed parking space.

Working plumbing: totally optional.

Bonus: lots of big, open, well-carpeted rooms (for throwing orgy fests, of course).

Troubleshooting: AirPort Extreme

For my own sanity:

Steps for using the Airport Extreme on Cox HSI:

1. Connect all cables (cable modem plugs into WAN port, which is to the left of the LAN port, which is designated by the two arrows).

2. Go to Finder/Utilities/AirPort Setup Assistant for Graphite or Snow

3. Select "LAN" for Internet connection

4. Go to Finder/Utilities/AirPort Setup Assistant

5. Exit any Internet browsers, if open; and/or restart the computer

6. Restart the cable modem

7. Open the Internet browser, and things should be working.

For whatever reason, setting up this wireless network through HSI tends to be a pain in my ass. It took me two or three days of fussing with things when I moved to Anthem before the wireless was working; thankfully, it only took me an hour or two this time around. Restarting seems to be the key, though figuring out cable configurations and the correct Setup process seems to take some time to get straight, too.

In case I have to set this up at some point in the future at another location, it would be nice to have the successful procedure written down somewhere, and as the Internet is far less likely to crash than is any of my computers (and while I can’t exactly lose the Internet, I can lose floppy disks and CDs at the drop of a hat), this seems the best way to store potentially helpful information for the future.

So if you’re sitting there, thinking, "Is this supposed to be funny? Is there a punchline somewhere?"– well– um, oh, wait, wait, okay: "So this sea cucumber walks into a bar–"

Or, oh, here– a Jewish Christmas carol:

The Guy: "You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why– Santa Claus is DEAD."