Ala Ala Ala

Thanks a million Ash, Cody, and Jay, for an amazing Vegas weekend!!!

We laughed, we splashed, we oogled, we lost obscene amounts of money at blackjack, we ate, we ate, we ate, we drank Sofia, we had a really fucking good time, thanks to you three and your fab-o-lous surprise weekend planning.

I know true friendship is priceless, but thanks for spending all that dough anyway. I love you guys!

love, me

The camera died on saturday, but there are a few more pictures here…

fucked-up animals

In the process of waiting for laundry to dry, and feeling too lazy to do anything useful, I have been reading the online archives of Savage Love, wherein I have stumbled upon a collection of letters sent in by people who have wierd stories involvong birds and sex.

Here they all are.

But just in case you’re in a rush or something, you have to at least read the following letter, which has made me laugh so hard that I’m in tears. (Especially loving feet as much as I do. Well, only my feet, but still.)

“When I was 12, I had a parakeet named Little Buddy. I learned that parakeets are attracted to mirrors and things that look like other birds. In my adult life, I now realize that they must be incredibly stupid animals if they do not recognize mirrored glass for what it is and not another parakeet, but that is neither here nor there. Whenever Little Buddy saw something that he thought was another bird, he would peck at it, chirp, and spit up seeds on it. One day, my dad was barefoot while I had the bird out on the floor. Little Buddy walked over to my dad’s feet and started pecking at his big toenail. My dad has the gross, callused feet of a workingman, which in no way look anything like a small bird. Little Buddy started spitting up seeds and when he started humping away at my dad’s big toe, I grabbed him and put him back in his cage. Anytime my dad’s feet came into view of his cage, he would start chirping or he would bite if I put him away while my dad was barefoot. The moral here is that parakeets are sick, fucked-up animals and you should keep them away from the ones you love.”

Cassie S.

P.S. The new Bjork album is amazing.

"The hazy yellow evening bedroom emptiness"

I know it’s been a while, but I’m just going to get right into it.

I’ve been reading this fascinating, weird, epic book called Middlesex and just happened to fancy the following passage so much that I thought I’d share it. (Hope I’m not breaking any laws!)

The narrator’s grandfather has just died suddenly, and upon finding him, the grandmother is sad but also incredibly happy and relieved. The author writes, “Emotions, in my experience, aren’t covered by single words. I don’t believe in ‘sadness,’ ‘joy,’ or ‘regret.’ Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I’d like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, ‘the happiness that attends disaster.’ Or: ‘the disappointment of sleeping with one’s fantasy.’ I’d like to show how ‘intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members’ connects with ‘the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age.’ I’d like to have a word for ‘the sadness inspired by failing restaurants’ as well as for ‘the excitement of getting a room with a minibar.’”

I was cracking up reading this, especially because it reminded me of the vocabulary that we as middle and high school kids used to create for ourselves. The one I still use to this day is “fauxpeal” (which goes hand in hand with “faux-hot”) constructed by the talented Cody to mean when somebody is sexy for a moment, but then not so much. Another is “mipiphany”, for when you have an epiphany which is so slight that it really only counts as a mini epiphany. I know we had more, but I can’t remember any others. (Cody, thoughts?)

What I love about these words is that they can’t really be written off as slang, because they’re not just “our little words” for something everybody else knows by a common name. They’re actual creations, words that define something previously unarticulated. Go us.

simply irresistable

I liked you, then you liked me, then we hated each other, then we became best friends. I haven’t talked to you in months, but I still love you.

Happy birthday, old friend! Hope you enjoyed the champagne.

The Persistence of Peanut Butter

Sad Little Creatures

Yesterday in Biology 107, my professor lectured on one of the most common blunders occuring in film today: the lies Disney teaches kids about animals.

Her story featured the box office smash Finding Nemo. “Remember how the mommy clown fish dies in the beginning, leaving the father alone to raise that one little egg that got left behind?” she asked. Yes, I remember…

“And remember how that little egg turned into Nemo, and the father-son relationship was even more special since Nemo was the last one left?” Yes, it was a special relationship, Professor…

“Well in reality, if that father clownfish had his whole family wiped out except one egg, he would have changed his gender so he was a female, waited for that egg to hatch, and eventually mated with his son, little Nemo.”

So, one point for Disney, sadly, as nobody would dare argue that an Oedipus complex plus transgendered Dad equals an $844 million dollar grossing movie. It might be a good documentary on E, though.

And shpeeking of biology…

I have as of late observed a tiny tragedy in our thriving Cement Horizon habitat: the absence of one of my favorite creatures, the Zembla. It’s quite possible that the elusive and often aloof Zembla could be hiding in one of the many lush folders or leafy links that the CH environment has to offer. Maybe the Zembla is napping, or tending to it’s version of domestic duties. But it’s been so long that I’m forced to wonder, has the Zembla gone extinct?

What a tragedy it would be if this clever creature’s time in Cement Horizon has passed. It’s a shame to think of the rest of the Blog-dwellers, some of whose very existence was brought about by the ferocious wit and graceful sentence structure offered by the Zembla. How will we carry on? What will the White Ponies, the Sushis, the Law-fighters and the Cookie-Frosters do without their beloved neighbor? That is a question I simply cannot answer.

So I beg of you, all Blog-dwellers, residents, and even occasional visitors of the Cement Horizon region: should you see a Zembla - even just one, even if it is a tiny little thing struggling for air or eloquence - nurture it. Laugh at it, comment on it, do anything you can to force the Zembla to reclaim it’s rightful place among the many others thriving in the CH habitat.

Zembla, Cement Horizon is out of balance without you.

Set Up By The Fashion Police

When I asked to see it, you said I couldn’t. “Motorcyclists have to pack light”, you said in so many words. The very outfit you wore was all you had to offer me.

Then what explains the item I found crumpled up in the very far corner of my closet?

Photolicious

Who knew that the Johnson Street house in San Diego was so happening? A whopping two people, that’s who! In the past week, we were lucky enough to have two consecutive guests staying with us - the lovely Christine Cramer, followed by Gene, who made these very photo viewing opportunities possible. Look on:

Christine, Ash, and I go to the happiest place on earth, and stop at a diner on the way home.

Kati, Gene, BJ, and Ash play frisbee golf while I photojournalize.‘

Something's Not Flowing

I just went to give blood, because yesterday the blood bank called me and frantically said “We have less than one day’s worth of your blood type. Please come in and donate!”.

So I went in, filled out the lengthy questionnaire (I had to lie about the wild sex I had last week with the gay African IV-drug-user), suffered the iron prick, and finally sat down next to BJ and waited to be drained. The lady came over, iodined me, and stuck the needle in, but it really hurt! She said it wasn’t working right (i.e. she had stuck it in wrong) and dug around with the needle looking for the blood to start flowing. That hurt even more! Finally, after a lot of unfruitful poking and squeezing, she threw in the towel and inquired about my other arm. I thought to myself “I don’t think so lady!” She and another more qualified nurse searched my left arm and gave up, claiming they couldn’t find any veins that would work.

I feel so impotent! I went in to donate blood, to do my part! But then some inexperienced phlebotomist messed up the insertion, and the whole thing was shot to hell. And the nerve of them, to make me feel like it was ultimately my fault - than my veins weren’t “visible” enough! Well maybe if you hadn’t screwed up and vein-raped my right arm in the first place!

Last time, it all went so well. The blood flowed, I met a cute P.E. teacher who slipped me the numba, I got pizza. This time: no flowing, no numba, just juice and an achey, undrained arm.

Panamaniacs

Overheard on the way to Peter Pan:

Me: Want to hear something dorky?
Ash: Ok.
Me: My mom and I used to have matching coolots.
Ash: What’s a coolot?

I saw the umpteenth film version of the story of Peter Pan last night. I was pretty excited, because I love the story and the preview was beautiful, but as I sat down in a theatre filled with gurgling children, I worried if this was about to be 113 minutes that I would end up regretting.

But I didn’t end up regretting it at all - in fact, the movie was great, despite having been directed by Crocodile Dundee. The acting was wonderful; mostly cute, plucky British children. The girl who played Wendy was beautiful in a perfect Wendy-way, where it wasn’t about being sexy.

The film sticks to the story pretty well, I can’t remember anything being changed except one little twist at the end. The romance is really played up, the action scenes were good, and the Indian/ Princess Tiger Lily stuff was handled very tastefully. A lot of the film was pretty funny, too, especially the one-eyed, one-legged plotting parrot. The characters were all three-dimensional and well thought out, from Smee to the sinister mermaids that try to drown Wendy. Peter and Wendy even have the classic “He Can’t Commit” argument.

My complaints are that the special effects (the ticking crocodile, Hook’s hookless stumpy hand) were kind of cheesy, and the color filters were way overboard. There were very pink or very blue scenes in the film where I was just begging for some normal colored light! And the boy who played Peter was good, but not great. I had some problems with his mouth.

Overall, a solid fairy tale film, with a beautiful set and beautiful actors. What more could you wish for from Peter Pan?

More Entries

Ala Ala Ala - septembre 27, 2004
fucked-up animals - septembre 07, 2004
"The hazy yellow evening bedroom emptiness" - août 23, 2004
simply irresistable - mai 24, 2004
The Persistence of Peanut Butter - avril 11, 2004
Sad Little Creatures - février 13, 2004
Set Up By The Fashion Police - février 13, 2004
Photolicious - février 06, 2004
Something's Not Flowing - décembre 30, 2003
Panamaniacs - décembre 30, 2003
Go Roll Off a Cliff - décembre 29, 2003
I Killed the Radio Star - décembre 17, 2003
How Rude - décembre 07, 2003
Pre-New Year's Resolution - décembre 05, 2003
Bothered and Bewildered - novembre 18, 2003
Important Papers...and Underwear - octobre 26, 2003
Ja Pan? Junior Pimp? John Pumpernickel? - octobre 19, 2003
Give Me "Party Girl" Any Day... - octobre 17, 2003
O Wet Pet - octobre 14, 2003
A Clean Getaway - octobre 06, 2003
Jose and Jos B - septembre 24, 2003
The Couple That Prays Together, Stays Together? - septembre 18, 2003
Somebody Beheaded My Marigolds! - septembre 13, 2003
"I am a vessel. Fill me." - septembre 06, 2003
Sapporo? Tomorrow. - septembre 06, 2003
The Number Two - juillet 23, 2003
Are you there Blog? It's me, Robyn... - juillet 22, 2003