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Below are the 25 most recent journal entries.
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2006.02.08 01.49 I loved those pants.  A lovely poem. Okay, a poem ( anyhow ). |
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2006.01.26 00.21 Minnie, Winnie, Adele and Bitsy. Buster, Chester, Connie and Edgar.  ( I think Peg means well, but gets carried away. ) |
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2005.11.08 00.42 Akebia.  A couple of posts back, restoman and I were talking about ( akebia ). |
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2005.10.31 00.09 Sure: pesticide neurotoxins to get better.  Because I trusted a brand. I've mentioned Beel here before: orphaned when he was hamster-sized, we found him nearly starved and living under a construction dumpster while on a location shoot. The construction workers had been feeding him bits of sandwiches and water, but he was pretty far gone. I spent most of the day I met him carrying him around in my shirt pocket while he bellowed like a seal. We named him for my friend Bill, the photographer on that job, in large part to annoy him (we liked whining Beeeeeel at Bill, the human, all gratingly, like Buffy and Jody fussed at Unca Beel on Family Affair.) Beel survived against all odds (I wheedled my sister into driving me to the pound with him on the day we found him; I wanted no part of sorry Beel's certain death from malnutrition, worms and bad breeding.) We got stuck in rush hour traffic and I had to bring him home, and that was that. He lived for the first few weeks in our closet in the Bull Mansion, on a stack of my sweaters. He imprinted on me the first week, and attempted to nurse on my shirt buttons. He's pretty neurotic, has all manner of separation anxieties (if he wakes up in a room, and I've left, he howls) and is a bony, canine-behavior-exhibiting, malformed, gay goon. ( Last week I poisoned him, on purpose. ) |
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2005.10.02 23.50 Hi, Neighbor. Wait, I can still see you. I grew up in a family of highly-mobile types, small town squatters in other families' unsalable homes: we were Renters. We roamed stubbornly and rootlessly, never turning soil, painting walls or adding our name to the mailboxes. During that messy time in which I was self-consciously attempting to grow up, we moved as often as most families fought, and usually for reasons as pointless. Later, as an adult of some vague sort, I resisted buying a house for a lot of years and a lot of reasons, and like most things that I've deferred with that sort of nebulous, history-addled logic, I regret not having done it much sooner.  ( Or, conversely, click here if you don't want to indulge in monitor tumbling (it wouldn't work anyhow.) ) |
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2005.09.19 22.20 Lordy, a body gets tired.  I don't much want to talk about it, so this'll be brief ( and comment-free. ) |
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2005.07.24 02.45 Again with the birds. Only different.  ( G'wan. Learn already. ) |
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2005.06.07 23.46 Travelers.  I'm happy enough to host the "travelers of the air", but lately I feel like I'm featured somewhere in a low-rent guidebook. Last Spring, there was a male robin that was fascinated with me. I blame him. Whenever I was working in the garden, he'd hop over, position himself on the grass about five feet from me, and just stare. Occasionally he'd make some small noises, nothing dramatic, and cock his head. At first I thought he wanted to root around in the soil I was turning over, but he really just seemed intent on observing, a little critically, but quietly, and from a reasonable enough distance. Now I realize he was a travel writer. ( This year: ) |
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2005.05.23 02.33 Books. That book meme that's rattling around; it got me thinking, which is what I suppose memes are intended to do.  ( I suppose. ) |
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2005.05.10 01.43 A Tale of Things Getting Better (Despite my Best Efforts to the Contrary.)  Hormann was getting a divorce; that's how the whole thing started. We hated Hormann, all of us, but the Corporation wanted us to use him; if it was to be black and white, and had any sort of editorial feel at all, Hormann was an arrogant, sexist fait accompli. A man who used the term 'shooter' to describe himself without a trace of irony, or for that matter, shame. ( ... ) |
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2005.04.30 00.43 Beware of Me. Why, good afternoon, sister. As the lady of the house, I think you'll be interested in this: I'm an agent, see, of the Olson Rug Company, outta Chicago. And I'm here today to show you something smart, that I think you're gonna like. You know, I can see that you're a lady of taste and refinement, and you've got a swell place here. Now what would you say if I told you that if you give me a bundle of old clothes, why rags even, in return I will give you a beautiful reversible rug? That's no joke, lady, a modern, stylish rug in exchange for your husband's castoff suitcoat, and maybe an old moth-eaten blanket or two! I know, I know, it sounds too good to be true; say, you wouldn't have a glass of water would you? I sure could use a sip of something cool; telling folks all about this great deal has got me mighty parched. No, no, I'd be happy to drink it out here on your beautiful porch. Well, thank you, I don't mind if I do... say! that's a fine davenport, that is. That taupe is very smart just now.  What you've just read is a made-up story: and a sad story for the lady of that house. At Olson Rugs, we employ no canvassers, no agents to bother you in the middle of your busy day. Now, if you'd like to read a happier story, with colorful photographs of smart homes, we've something to share with you. A story about how we can turn your old cast-offs into fine reversible, broadloom rugs. Sound remarkable? ( It is! ) |
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2005.03.27 03.14 Well-Rubbed Change and Salad (Dressing) Days.    I had a great uncle (the uncle of my stepfather, Robert, and brother of my great Aunt Betty) growing up, who had made a Sunday Supplement name for himself creating hideously rococco faux Fabergé eggs, and selling them to Saudi royalty. ( I honestly don't make any of this up. ) |
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2005.02.15 21.00 Lunar Hoaxes. Last Sunday night, when I was mired in impending workplace dread, it snowed. It snowed something fierce and unworldly, and it helped. It covered everything in what-if and maybe-not-so-much. It allowed for a shift in perspective, and god knows that's always welcome (discounting the 'bonus' perspective of double vision, which never helps. Aren't many statements I make absolutely authoritatively, but that's one.)  ( Much more mooniness; woe to the dial-ups. ) |
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2005.01.24 00.33 Notification 00788-49M54W/61-2  I know you made a wish; I know you made that particular wish. You either know precisely which wish I am referencing, or you’re wondering: which wish? If it’s the latter, it’s because you’ve made more than one, dozens even, and they’re overlapping, indistinct in your memory. Let’s not pretend anything, let’s not pretend specifically that you haven’t made a wish recently, that you haven’t strenuously wished and then reconsidered for a half second, and then wished again with more conviction and clarity of purpose, because you have. I’ll get you started: you were looking at wood when you made it. Enough said. So. I’m here about that wish, and by now you know which wish I mean or else I am wasting my time, in which case, don’t wish again anytime soon and expect anything resembling results. Because you know, if you can’t maintain interest, it’s tenfold difficult and then twice as unlikely for me. A little boilerplate: I can’t and won't make any promises, because all things considered, wish fulfillment is an amazingly intricate proposition, what with ramifications, and chaos and all. Your wish certainly doesn’t trump anyone else’s, and by the time I do my part, someone else may very well have strolled in requesting a conflicting effort, and you can only imagine the rest. You can wish for your wish to take priority of course, but that’s a relatively abstract wish, and you can also imagine what sort of priority those get. So. There’ll be some sort of indication in advance, it’s a standard, time-honored part of the process. There was already a fairly overt signal about ten days ago, acknowledging that your wish had been noted (it wasn’t a bell, or a tone or anything musical; that sound that seemed out of place was just somebody doing something. That happens, and everyone always assumes it was us.) Maybe you noticed and maybe you didn’t. Next time (assuming…) you’ll probably be thinking that you’re spotting indications all over the place, and that’s how a lot of people miss out on the real thing. Maybe that's saying too much. You know, we’re really not supposed to initiate any sort of discussion, or draw attention to the process like this; it’s just that these are relatively cynical times and volume has dropped significantly, so we’re working on new initiatives, incentives even maybe. There was talk of some sort of form letter, or something less literal like an improved, ‘prettied-up’ notification, but it got to the point where we were just having meetings about having meetings, so a few of us just decided to move forward and offer up a semblance of, well, hope. Anyhow. Keep a good thought, and know that I’m working on it. Regardless of the outcome, someone else will likely handle your next request, so fulfillment in this case won’t have any impact on future wishes. Still, you don’t want to flood the office, and we are expecting a surge again in the near future. But you don’t care about any of that right now, and I don’t blame you. Best Wishes, etc. |
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2005.01.02 23.47 Incubate quail eggs for fun and profit. Or don't. I could care less. It's time (in my opinion, and I'm the one typing) for another disjointed list entry, apologies in advance to aspara. It's either that, or an early Chinese New Year entry, and I don't feel like finding and unpacking the damn dragon.*1. The cities of Natchez, Mississippi and Mobile, Alabama should be eternally grateful to Johnny Mercer. If he hadn't romanticized them in Blues in the Night, god only knows what sort of association might have attached itself to those two cities. Imagine if Waynesboro and Shelby had struck Johnny's fancy. (Granted, Memphis and St. Joe were also deemed worthy, but Memphis managed to make a name for itself independently of swoony lyrics, and I have no idea where 'St. Joe' is.) ( Oh, there's more... ) |
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2004.12.25 16.17 It was fine. It was sweet and sour, literally and figuratively.  And now I'll stop with the seasonal posts, because it's starting to feel like a grammar-school bulletin board, and I don't have anything for "April Showers Bring May Flowers", or "In Like a Lion, Out Like a Lamb." |
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2004.10.31 21.34 Dim fun on Fillmore.  I was all hopped up on peanut m&ms, and every time the doorbell rang, I had a tiny heart attack. Mostly I passed favors to sullen teenagers, no costumes, no bags. The first ones that seemed unlikely to knife me (gangly, geeky boys who shambled up a little bashfully) I asked, "You don't even have bags?" "We eat it as we go," one informed me. "I got a hoodie with pockets!" piped up one from the back. Another one murmured, "Oh, shutup." I liked him best. ( Peek around, but sorry: the candy's long gone. ) |
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2004.10.05 23.48 Fashion Week at Twenty. Part Two: Never be the same.  When the plane landed, Hue made abundantly clear to me again her disappointment that I had checked a bag. She'd managed to pack an impressive number of things clingy into a black leather backpack that she jammed violently under a hapless seat with her foot: oddly long tubular skirts and crepe-y tanks in greens and greys, everything titillatingly bandage-like and body-wrapping. The truth was, I was in love with Hue and her clothes, had been for more than a year. She dressed like a small, highly sexual tree, all barky textures and dapply greens and mucky blacks. She had the shiniest beetle-y brown-black hair I'd ever seen on a human, and a way of speaking while inhaling mostly, swallowing her own laugh as though saving it for less angsty times. ( Which never really came. ) |
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2004.10.05 19.11 Long-ago referenced 'Fashion Week at Twenty'. Part One: Stupid Time. On the flight into Kennedy, Hue annoyed the flight attendants mightily, spending about ten minutes in the aisle talking with a white-haired man who had apparently been sitting in first class. He stood angled uncomfortably, almost splayed in the aisle, one arm straying behind him in the direction of the cockpit, willfully betraying his front-of-the-cabin origins. It might have been a matter of in-flight noblesse oblige, of attempting not to block the aisle entirely, but I doubted it, judging solely from the look of his wristwatch, his suit and his general business class vibe. Blocking the aisle was no sort of concern for Hue; she was tiny and startlingly lithe. She had a habit of contorting herself uncannily while you were arguing with her, pinning her arms behind her back, or bending low at the waist, elbows almost skimming the floor- a reminder that she was capable of great pliancy in the name of coming out ahead. ( Significantly, ) |
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2004.09.30 00.47 An atypical entry. Maybe I'll delete it later. 1) Julianne Moore has the warmth, but more significantly the facial structure, of a piranha. She nibbles scenery. The movie The Forgotten is It's a Wonderful Life for the generation of parents who forget that their children are strapped into their cars, and subsequently leave them to bake in office and shopping center parking lots. Our culture (and more specifically many of its entertainments) makes me want to vomit more or less endlessly. |
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2004.09.27 01.28 Lonely Interests. Orphaned pursuits.  Of all of the interests in my interests list, those that aren't shared, the ones that stay all sad and bookweight with no chance of ever being bold, are the ones that I feel especially protective of when I see them shivering all thinly on my profile page. They're mostly the things on that list that truck the most sentimental freight, haul the most emotional weight. The vrooomiest. Well, not exclusively: all of the 'used bookstore entries', the book titles themselves, and steamed dumplings, those are all especially meaningful, and they're rendered in the chubbiest of sociable helvetica (okay, Arial, and on my browser, anyhow.) [When you see an Interest List that is mostly comprised of thin-fonted Lonely Interests, do you think, "Loser."? Or are you large-hearted, and think to yourself, "Esoteric iconoclastic type s/he is."? And not because you can't tell the gender from any of the person's icons; that's a different topic.] But throw an interest a dime, maybe? Aside from the obvious (don't pipe up and say 35mm film grain! We went to school together!) speak up and either profess a familiarity with one or two of these, if not a fondness. These interests are perfectly fine, there's nothing lewd or unpatriotic (or jingoistic, for that matter) about any of them. They just need a little love and acknowledgement to become contributing LJ citizens. Maybe you can even see fit to adopt one, to experience the companionship and meaning a neglected interest could bring to that static, long-suffering list of your own. But hey: no pressure. Someone will probably want one of them someday. Note also that their inclusion in the list below affords them the luxury of capitalization and occasional italicization, which might provide helpful clues as to their meaning. Might. (Alphabetization courtesy of LiveJournal. I would never have bothered.) 1. Ben Neihart 2. Bill Phelps 3. Cafe Moto 4. Conjure Wife*** 5. excessive comma usage* 6. frowning in photos*** 7. Garson Kanin*** 8. Girls of Slender Means*** 9. Hopper lighting 10. Joe Pye Weed 11. Lamothe House 12. Light at Dusk 13. Llamas that spit**/*** 14. Michael Winterbottom's Wonderland*** 15. Millie Helper*** 16. Miss Ruby's 17. naps with books*** 18. Ollies Noodle shop 19. Our Lady of Assassins*** 20. peanut butter cake 21. Rick Brant 22. shahi korma 23. Sheree North*** 24. The Folding Star 25. The Go Between 26. Yes, I said Fresca*** *Be nice, elevatorride.**This was originally worded 'That Llamas Spit', because it was just the notion that a creature so adorable actually rudely and happily spits that I wanted to acknowledge, but it looked really odd in a list that way. ***These are not band names, but would be excellent choices, and I relinquish all band name rights so that you may use them while rocking. Out. |
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2004.09.26 03.58 Moved past bitter into grace.  ( Proof: ) |
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2004.09.21 22.29 The most obvious difference is in the feelers. Yeah, isn't it always?  ( I do. ) |
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2004.09.09 22.30 Lordamighty. I have found the oracle, and it was at Urban Outfitters. foolish for feeeelings directed at an inanimate object? It's not that it's pink; I am no particular fan of pink. It's not because it's shiny; I am not a crow. And it's not the awful, wannabe-classical shape, because I could care less and I am not gay in that way.  What could possibly make it so especial?( G'head: guess. ) |
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2004.09.05 00.53 I tongued a wall once, only six blocks from here. As a child, thankfully. But still.  I think I've made it clear here (although after more than a year of prattling on LiveJournal, I'm no longer much inclined to fact-check my own sloppy reportage) that I am not a native Minneapolitan. I grew up all over the place, dragged around by my stepfather's alcoholic whims and the vagaries of his chosen profession: welding supplies sales. ( Anyhow, about that wall... ) |
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