If you ever needed proof that I write only for my own amusement, this post would be it

I was at Best Buy last weekend (or earlier this week..? You know, the when isn’t even relevant) and as I passed by the mobile phone section, I stopped to, somewhat enviously, cradle a Motorola Q in my fingers. So small! So delicate! And those buttons! So reminiscent of the best QWERTY keypad ever, found only on Palm Treos!

Shortly after, I saw an advertisement for the Samsung Blackjack. Again! So small! And snackable! And by Samsung! (Oh, Samsung, you know I’ll always have a soft spot in my techno-geeky heart for you. I may curse my eyes for being so goddamningly Korean, but I will never curse you.) The buttons look kind of weird, but tactiley distinctive. Rounded QWERTY buttons rock. And! A! Camera!

Every time I start to get a little angsty over my phone choice, though, I just have to remind myself: these cute skeletal waifs of phones? RUN ON WINDOWS MOBILE. To which I can only respond, and I say this in the most eloquent and respectful manner as I can muster: oh, barf.

[It’s just cell phone talk from here on down. Proceed at your own risk of boredom.]

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YouTube: “Kiwi!”

For Heather, more than anyone else.

I’ve only watched this about four hundred times by now. It’s cute and sweet and sad, but sad in a cute and sweet sort of way.

If my future husband can run like this Kiwi bird, we will ultimately be the shit. He will be the kiwi-bird-dude and I’ll be the M.C. Hammer Slide girl.

Original link (YouTube)

Hooky, Tom Stoppard, Chips Ahoy and Connect-i-cut

I played hooky tonight from dance because… well, because of a few reasons. The first being I had to miss the first class for a theatre audition, the second being I got myself all stressed out because of the audition (to the point where I didn’t want to do ANYTHING, let alone something requiring coordination and mental capabilities to any degree), and the third being the anticlimactical result of said audition.

Reasons Two and Three both revolved around the same fact: the one-act for which I was auditioning was written by Tom Stoppard.

FACT: I love Tom Stoppard. Maybe more than I love David Ives, but them’s tricky waters.

FACT: Tom Stoppard is a *genius* of a playwright.

FACT: If Tom Stoppard said the only way I could ever perform in any of his works, regardless of who was directing or producing it, was if I took three full years of chemistry, I would do it. In a heartbeat.

Anyway. Hence my being stressed out. Local theatre co. putting on a Tom Stoppard play? I HAVE TO GET THE PART.

But then I got there and I was filling out a contact info sheet and I couldn’t remember the exact name of the play, and the following exchange took place:

ME: Sorry, what’s the name of the Tom Stoppard one-act again?
DIRECTOR: The what?
ME: The Tom Stoppard play.
DIRECTOR: The what play?
ME: Tom Stoppard?

Yeah. The director apparently didn’t know just *who* Tom Stoppard is, other than some guy who happened to pen a one-act that appealed to his fancy.


And then there’s the fact that I was the only one there tonight. Granted, it was the last evening of auditions, but, I mean, really? Only one there? Both directors did the cold readings with me. Neither had British accents that could have passed for anything close to regionally identifiable. Not that it says anything about their directing skills, of course, because hey! If directors could act, they’d be actors, not directors, right? Just like there are music producers who can’t sing or play an instrument to save their lives, right? Right?

In any case, I made callbacks. I’m sorry to say it doesn’t mean a whole lot to me in this moment, but maybe after Monday night I’ll be a little more enthused.

In lieu of the second dance class, I went to Chipotle to use this thing that expires at the end of next month. I’ve only been to Chipoodle once before, more than two years ago, and I think that time, too, I only went because the newspaper staff had coupons or certificates or whatever. In any case, I’ve never been able to get over the whole McDonald’s affiliation, and after tonight, I don’t see that I’m that much for the worse because of it. I’m not a big Tex-Mex fan, is all, and to anyone who thinks Chippotatle is straight-up Mexican food, let me just say that in all the years I lived in San Diego, I never once ate at a taco shop that tried to put white rice, black beans, and/or KERNELS OF CORN in my burrito.

On the way to Chippewa Falls, however, I saw my first Connecticut license plate! I’ve been in love with (the idea of) Connecticut ever since I was a kid: firstly, because of its spelling (silent c’s are sexy beasts), and secondly, because growing up, I was a hardcore BSC fanatic. And I mean that whole-heartedly. The series belonged to my sister first, then I took over ownership and continued adding to it as new books were published. We had the Super Series, the mysteries, the special-edition hardbacks, the Little Sister series– no trip to a B. Dalton or a Waldenbooks was complete without checking to see if a new installation had come out. And while I knew that Stoneybrook didn’t actually exist, I also knew that Connecticut did.

Also, their state quarter is something kind of lovely.

I’m just realizing now that this entry should have had a jump, but, oh well, I’m cold. Tea time!

Our logic does not resemble their earth logic. Ours is much more advanced.

S [to J]: Know what two things women are good for?
L [interrupting in typical strumpet fashion]: Cooking and cleaning?
J: And making babies.
L: But that’s three.
S: Household chores and making babies.
L: But doesn’t "making babies" fall under "household chores"?
S: You’d think, right?

And then M and I wrapped up the evening drawing male genitalia all over our Round 7 answer sheet.

Oh, who am I kidding. "Male genitalia." We drew cocks and balls. Everywhere. It was great.

It’s “Alka Seltzer” and Brian *Setzer.* Don’t act like you’ve never mixed the two up.

Back in September, the day I grouched about Las Vegas and dancing, I also killed some time in a Hallmark store. I like Hallmark’s "Impromptu" line, so that’s always the section I visit first (it’s usually the only section, come to think of it).

And I saw this one card, and almost melted into a puddle of tears right there in the store.

Granted, I was in an emotionally hyper-sensitive state at the time, but the card was striking enough that, over two months later, I sought it out again and purchased it:



I mean, right?

Anyway. Speaking of Jump, Jive & Wail, Ken Levine has a new collaboration called "The Atomic City Collective" and they’re making their public debut at First Friday at the Holsum Bread Factory. If you’re in town and would be so inclined, I’d definitely encourage you to go see them. First Friday in itself is a great asset of Las Vegas’ newly emerging culture (or stab at it), and JJ&W is a fun and energetic band, so I can only imagine that The Atomic City Collective will be of the same caliber.

All faux-pretension aside: GO. Support local artists. Support the local swing scene.

[Edit: Okay, I don’t know just how much "swing" the ACC is. From the website: "Our sound is a mix of jazz standards with a twist, and funk filled original compositions." Still. Support LOCAL ARTISTS, DAMMIT.]


Every year, without fail, someone asks me, incredulously, how I can enjoy Thanksgiving if I’m a vegetarian.

Given all the tearful recounts I hear or read about in the aftermath regarding overcooked and dry turkeys, or turkeys that got devoured by the family pets when someone’s back was turned, I don’t think one necessarily has to be a vegetarian in order to find ways to enjoy a turkey-less Thanksgiving dinner.

Anyway. I made the best-ever leftover sandwich today: spiced cranberries, dressing, mashed potatoes with gravy, chickenless Chinese chicken salad. Everything except the sandwich bread was homemade. A little dry, despite the smattering of gravy, but that’s why god invented creme soda.

Names like “Sir Mimsington of Pompeii the Third”

Amy’s Thanksgiving post (no permalink, sorry) reminded me of something else we would do if I were yours: we would trace our hands come Thanksgving time and color them with crayons. And then we would name our paper turkeys, and then! THEN! Then we would have a paper turkey fight-to-the-death! Mine would win, every time, because of its inherent superiority in the cute department, being as I have small, cute fingers and hands.

And come winter, I would make paper snowflakes, oodles of them, and hang them artistically from the ceiling, high enough for me to clear them without any problem, but still low enough that you’d stumble into one or two from time to time. Every time I hear you start cursing at the goddamn paper snowflakes what the motherfucking hell??– I’ll be in the other room, trying to stifle my giggling fit.

Tennyson is okay, but I’ll take W.C.W. over him most of the time

William Carlos Williams, of "The Red Wheelbarrow" fame, is one of the poets I hold most dear in my nerdy, literary heart. Partly because his poems were my collective thesis for my Poetry final, which won a highly-coveted "A" from the professor (among whose final remarks on my essay was "Brilliant"– four years later and I’m still in shock), but mostly because how can you not love a man who authors masterpieces such as "Queen-Anne’s Lace"?

Her body is not so white as
anemone petals nor so smooth – nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over–
or nothing.

The man made poetry more than pretty words. The man made poetry a living, breathing, feeling experience.

Also: yes, Nietzsche is overrated, but also highly, highly misunderstood and unfortunately embraced as the "God is dead" philosopher. Though, admittedly, I’ve never made it all the way through my copy of "Thus Spake Zarathustra." Shit is boring as all hell.

And there are few essays I love more in this world than Camus’ "The Myth of Sisyphus." Six years ago, we had to read it for an English assignment. It’s been burned into my memory ever since.

I really need to get a copy of Neruda’s "Odas Elementales." But, one with proper translations. Gah.

A sample guide to properly identifying AWESOME

Oh people of the Internet, do you ever struggle to identify whether something is truly AWESOME or actually just effing crackpot disgusting? No worries! Let this wholesome handy helper be a sampler guide for you.

Things that are AWESOME: The Penn & Teller show at the Rio, catching every green light when you’re running late, unwittingly bumping into someone you haven’t seen in what feels like ages and who brings with him a little piece of your former home, whether it be in the form of rockabilly swing or what-have-you (Ro! Heven!), discovering that girls you previously believed disdainfully held you in low regard are actually really quite friendly to you, house salads with balsamic vinaigrette, coming home at 5 a.m. to a welcoming bed with soft pillows and warm sheets.

Things that SUCK AND OH, SUCK IT HARD: coming home at 5 a.m. to a welcoming bed with soft pillows and warm sheets and a BIG HUGE SMELLY STAIN from where a stupid territorial cat with ISSUES apparently peed hours earlier. Not getting to go to bed. Staying awake instead, grumpily eating cold leftover dressing, journaling and then blogging for two stupid hours with a headache and eye strain and Judas Priest, I just want to go to bed already but I have to wait until it’s a more decent hour to start running the washing machine.

Just a wild shot in the dark, but I’m probably not going to make it to my 10 a.m. funk class.

They keep them science buildings nice an’ air-conditioned, a-yep

Two hours of running around campus again today = finalized schedule! Because I came in with senior standing (thank you, well-rounded education at USD), I basically get first pick with classes, which means a tidy, tidy schedule.

Classes for Spring 2007:

  • CPE 100 (Computer Logic Design)
  • CHE 121/L (General Chemistry + Lab)
  • PHYS 180/L (Physics for Scientists and Engineers + Lab)
  • ECON 102 (Intro to Microeconomics)
  • DAN 108 (Body Balancing Technique)
  • DAN 135 (Ballet I)
  • DAN 144 (Tap I)
  • DAN 478 (Middle Eastern Dance I)

Originally, part of my paper trail included departmental permission to overload by one unit because I thought I had to take the lab for CPE 100, but it turns out neither computer nor electical engineering majors need to take that; only computer science.

So I’m only taking 18 units. And when I say "only," I mean that in all seriousness, as pathetic as that sounds. I was so ready to jump into three lab courses next semester that, having dropped one, I now feel pretty damn lazy.

So! Excited! Except about the buying-books part. God, that sucks balls.