See? Coal-Meltingly Adorable

It is my most solemn vow that this is the last time I will post pictures of my kitties, for at least a month, but...last night I had the fortune of capturing the rare, raw, in-the-wilds-of-my-futon footage of Herr Fluff making sweet sweet love to Prince Brat. As seen below:

I realize that this picture looks like Audun could well be eating Xavier's paw, as opposed to licking it, so for further proof I offer this:

They totally love each other! It's so fantastic & warm & fuzzy.

Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!

BEAUTIFUL Soup, so rich & green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!

Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two
Pennyworth only of Beautiful Soup?
Pennyworth only of Beautiful Soup?

Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beauti-FUL SOUP!

Lewis Carroll may or may not have been a Victorian pervert, but DAMN was he spot-on about soup. SOUP is the best, most wonderful part of winter! Ice-scraping, breath-seeing, shiver-inducing, scarf-producing, soup-ingestingly fabulous winter. Sweaters & bare feet on cold linoleum are simply sacrifices made for the good of soup. (Chili is good too. Mmm. Nice & spicy.)

Also, the second most wonderful part of the season-of-'tis-the-season is hot tea. Choice Organic Green Moroccan Mint is currently favored within the walls of my abode.

A Cemetery Is A Park, Only With Dead People & Carved Rocks

This weekend I indulged in a bit of cheating - instead of trying to find some fabulous new park to explore, I opted to go instead to the Lone Fir Pioneer Cemetery which is about two blocks from my apartment. In my defense, it was a rare day in which it rained steadily-heavily from morn til about 2 pm (usually, in the event of an all-day rain, it's more of a moist constant drizzle). For a cemetery, it was quite pleasant, full of big old fir trees & decomposing headstones - though, frankly, after having lived on the east coast for so long (&, well, particularly having been to Italy a lifetime ago), I do find it a bit difficult to be much impressed by things that date ALL THE WAY BACK TO 1855! (Oregon's geology, on the other hand, I find more fascinating & extensive than its white-people-population history).

In addition to the requisite fading headstones, one thing Lone Fir possessed which I have not before seen (to be sure, I've not spent loads of time surveying cemeteries) was a large number of modern black headstones which were all either decorated with pictures of Oregon scenery &/or pictures of the deceased. The writing was in a strange language; I'm gonna go with Greek on this one, since I do know that Portland has a large Greek population. These graves were well tended - indeed, many were plots-cum-flower gardens. One such gravesite was even liberally festooned with silver garlands & "Happy New Year!" balloons.

Oh, & did you know that Julius Caesar is buried here? & that, by request, his gravestone is inscribed with the epitaph "PLAY BALL"? I kid you not! Only, it's not quite the Et tu, Brutus Caesar. Nope, this guy was an emancipated slave born in 1830 who loved baseball.

Though I took lots of nice pictures of headstones, fir trees, funny little buildings & the like, I must confess that like the child I am, I was struck most by this wonderful tree. Mr. Tree, I don't know what you're actually called, but henceforth I dub thee "Elephant Tree".

My Own Private Cute Overload

Hey, guess what I got for Christmas! (Hint: it ain't a cat.)

Haven't been able to get a shot of Audun (the grown up) cleaning Xavier (the kitten) yet - melts my lump-of-coal heart every time.

[To Be Sing-Songed]

Shortest day of the year; they only get longer from here!

[Yay!]

You Would've Bought It Too

How fantabulous is this? I don't know jackshit about grenaches, but didn't even have to think twice about picking this lil' number up when mine eyes espied it on the shelf. Fortunately, it happens to be tasty enough to deserve its magnificent name & packaging. My favorite part is the cap (no corkscrew here! Maybe because the wine sees no oak...? I'm pretty much a wine retard, so I have no idea), which repeats the dagger-in-heart image seen on the back of the bottle - the big one, up toward the top.

I got the last bottle on the shelf at Zupan's, my neighborhood grocery store. Made up for the fact that I didn't have time to saunter over to the Wine Garage as I'd planned, where rumor has it that nary a bottle exceeds $13.

Verdict? If, like me, you're a sucker for packaging, pink & (semi-)dirty words - & want a nice, easy-to-drink, somewhat sweet wine - you'll friggin' love it.

Volcanoes & Reservoirs & Views, Oh My

Continuing my weekly park-y exploration, on Sunday 17 December 2006, I trekked over to the 196-acre Mt. Tabor Park. Okay, so I drove. It's only 30 blocks away from my place, but Mt. Tabor happens to be a (vertically-inclined) extinct volcano (one of only two such volcanoes within city limits in the U.S., the other being in Bend, OR), so despite my overall goal to drive my car as little as possible on the weekends, I decided to hop in & head over, to enable me to walk more in the park, particularly given my late start. Five minutes later, I was parked partway up the hill & walking past one of the reservoirs, the fence of which held a sign emblazoned with a warning to the effect that if I threw something in there, I could be arrested. "This is your drinking water!!!"

Mt. Tabor Park is simply gorgeous. I'd been there before, at the age of 16, on the day Jerry Garcia died. A friend & I decided to run up to Portland for some sort of vigil in the Rose Garden (I think), not that I'd ever listened to the Grateful Dead, but I did love leaving Scio. Only of course Misty was running on Misty-time & we didn't get up there until midnight or so, long after the vigil was over. Long story short, we ended up at a drum circle on Mt. Tabor, where I sat round a fire & smoked the devil weed for the very first time & didn't get home until long after the sun rose, marking another first - the first time I'd ever stayed out all night. (Strange to have moved 3,000 miles, to a city in which I've never lived, & yet still be coming home, in so many ways...)

Anyway, yes, my drinking water is up there. In architecturally lovely reservoirs with little castle-like structures to do whatever it is they do to the water. I gather that there was recently some sort of city plan to bury the reservoirs, but given that three of the six reservoirs were placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 2004, I expect that plan has itself been buried. But the reservoirs are only one of the features that make a trip here worthwhile.

The paths are wind-y & very nice. Several were paved in 1930s as part of Roosevelt's Depression-era parks project, but several more are simply gravel covered with blankets of pine needles. Walking on pine needles in Oregon is quite different from trodding on the leaf-strewn paths of deciduous forests in Virginia. I can't quite explain it, but I do love the near-silent sound of treading on pine needles. Also from the 1930s, at the top of the hill, is a bronze statue of Harvey W. Scott, who was editor of The Oregonian from 1865-1872 & 1877-1910. The statue was sculpted by Gutzon Borglum of Mt. Rushmore fame.

The real treat of Mt. Tabor Park, though, is the views it affords. Simply spectacular. At the volcano's crater, depending on where you are standing, you get stunning views of Mt. Hood to the east & the city skyline to the west. You can even see Mt. St. Helens on a clear day.

This one will most definitely be hard to top!

Parks, Parks, Everywhere a Park Park

There are somewhere between 30 to 40 parks in the Portland area. We have the most acres of park in correspondence with city area, of any city in the U.S. (I think that's the right statistic...if not, it's some sort of similar statistic that means the same thing - Portland has a buttload of parks.)

Anyway, it's become my mission...my goal...nay, my very calling...to go to a different park each weekend. Rain or shine, because in Oregon, mind, if you wait for it to not rain, you might never leave the house from November through May.

First up: Laurelhurst Park, Saturday 9 December 2006. Why? Because I could go there on foot & it wouldn't interrupt my plans to attend Tuba Christmas downtown in Pioneer Courthouse Square later on. This is a park I will go to a lot, largely because it is a seven-minute walk from my apartment. Which is good, because reading about it gives me a suspicion that I ended my exploration too abruptly. But, what I did see was quite pretty. Apparently the park is based on Central Park in NYC, albeit on a smaller scale. Ummm, much smaller scale. In 2001 it became the first park ever named to the National Register of Historic Places.

My impressions? A lovely pond. Nice paths. Ducks! Picnic tables. Alcoholic beverages are permitted in the park in certain areas, so I think that in tandem with its walkability would make it a lovely place to picnic in warmer weather. Apparently there's a recording studio about the park somewhere, & in the summer outdoor productions of Shakespeare plays are put on. (Not unlike Central Park - egads!) Overall, a pleasant little place.

Polydactyl Madness!

After being a total kitten slut (I had no fewer than 3 simultaneous appointments to look at kittens last night!), I went with the Hemingway cat! He is a 10-week-old little gray thing; looks like there is some slight stripe-age going on, but he's mostly just gray. And judging from his older brother, he is going to be a BIG boy. His paws are quite large; but what else can you expect - he's got 24 friggin' toes.

Unfortunately, Audun has yet to really take to him. That's not surprising. The kitten hid mostly behind the bathtub, but he did wake me up in the middle of the night crying. And he ventured out into the wide world this morning before I left for work. I played with him; Audun watched from the futon; all was well. Leaving them alone all day is cause for mild concern; but the hiding place behind the bathtub seems pretty secure, there's food & water there, & the litter box is just outside the door.

Now, the most important question of all - what ever am I to name the creature? I toyed briefly with Half Dozen (y'know, "six of one...") but decided that was far too silly for even a silly creature like me. Then, last night, I thought I had settled on Xavier (using the mangled English pronounciation "ig-ZAY-vee-ur" like the barbarian I am). I've always adored the name; plus I figured I could call him X for short. But when I woke up this morning, I found myself almost automatically wanting to call him Jasper. I attribute this to my current (re)reading of Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca, which ranks up there with Jane Eyre on my list of many-times-read guilty pleasures. (Hmm, I wonder why...could it be because Rebecca is in some ways just a retelling of Jane Eyre?) At any rate, Max de Winter's faithful dog happens to be named Jasper.

So, there is a battle. Xavier vs. Jasper - who will win? We shall see this evening, I am sure, for I am determined to settle on a name as soon as possible.

EDIT: He is Xavier. And so sweet! He's already figured out that Audun is naught but bluff & bluster. Last evening Xavier managed to climb onto the futon without awaking the beast slumbering near my knees, & he cuddled with me all the night through. Appreciate your fortune that I possess not a digital camera, or this weblog here shouldst be inundated with an unseemly array of photos.

My Cat Needs Some Pussy

Not to be crass (whoops, too late!) but he seriously does. See, the thing is, Audun has never ever in his whole life except for two weeks in September 2006 lived without another cat. And let's just say he's not exactly taking to being a solo cat quite as well as I'd hoped. Okay, he HATES it. He's super-lonely. And how does this unhappiness manifest itself? Well, luckily he's not a pisser. Or a shitter. Or a tear-shit-up-per. No, my darling cat is...a meower. A follow me around all the time crier. I try to cuddle him - but no. I try to play with him - but no. Hell, even feeding him barely quells the incessant bellyaching.

And, insomuch as I am glad that his ennui does not result in anything more destructive than some whining, it is starting to drive me CRAZY. I've actually left my apartment because of it.

So, continuing the strong masturbatory bent of this blog of late, herewith will I share my inclination in the world of cats: male, because most of the female cats I've known are either psychotic, bitches, or psychotic bitches. Audun happens to be a sensitive little thing. Kitten, so Audun can be a dominant cat for once in his life, however brief the duration. I know that everybody wants a cute little kitten & oh the poor adult cats but - here's the rub - if I was getting a cat for me, I would totally be into getting a fully-grown one. Honestly, though, I don't want another cat right now, much as I adore the critters. But Herr Fluff demands it, & I think he would do better with a kitten.

Development in progress. Perhaps Audun would do well with a...SIX-TOED kitten? I *heart* Craigslist. Trying to arrange to see a six-toed kitty smorgasboard tonight & hoping to find a good fit. Will touch my blog again tomorrow if all goes well!

You Want Character? I'll Give You Doors.

Last night I figured out that there are no fewer than eight doorways in my foyer. In fact, one entire wall is comprised of nothing but doors. And the foyer ain't that big.

One for the water closet (AKA my toilet room), one for the bathroom, two to my next-door(s) neighbor's unit (which are locked & have no doorknobs, of course), one to the loft upstairs, one for the foyer closet & two to my living room.

Eight is my "lucky" number, largely by dint of its eerily frequent manifestations in my life, so I'll take this as fortuitous.

Also, what a great title & great idea for a film! Eight Doorways. Of course, I wouldn't use literal doorways. And there probably wouldn't be eight of anything really. But just think how hard people would look for the eight "doorways" & the crazy ideas they'd derive from the film to interpret the title. C'est fantastique!

I May Be Old, But My Sense of Humor Isn't

I've had a pretty cracked day at work, which no doubt explains why I find this so funny, but sometimes you just have to take a break from fruitlessly trying to place Inland Marine coverage for logs & lumber (ah, Oregon) & appreciate insurance company typos:

You're Always a Day Away

I AM SO FRIGGIN' HAPPY. My wonderful apartment is EVEN BETTER than I remembered. And, after the what-the-fuck stage & the intense I'm-needy-love-me stage, my cat Audun (AKA The Best Thing That Ever Happened To Me) seems to love it! He's already back to blanket-fucking. Okay, so technically he's actually still in that desperation cuddle phase where he clings & purrs & follows me around meowing at me because he wants to be held. But still. He was definitely pumped when he discovered that there are TWO floors for him to run around in. Technically three if he feels like going downstairs to the door. Also, I can totally let him out on the porch on a semi-supervised basis. And there's so much room! I needs the paints, & the shelves, but I'm totally in love.

I can't walk - only painfully hobble - but that's okay. The pain will end; the apartment is long-term. At the risk of sounding overly self-satisfied, while I recognize & appreciate my good fortune, I have to say that I totally deserve this. And overall, karma has been a really good friend to me since I got out here.

Oh, concert update: saw The Faint on Sunday. Awesome, awesome show, though I'm sad that I missed most of the opening band, Ratatat, 'cause they were great too. Any mild disappointment I may have had because The Faint didn't play "Violent" was countered by the fact that they did play "Worked Up So Sexual" & other favorites of mine which heretofore attained "dance 'til you're sweaty" status only in my living room(s). I'm guessing the guys have an album in ye olde pipeline; they played several new (great) songs & alluded to testing out new material as being the reason for their tour. & for those of you keeping score, we got two compliments outta the lead singer for The Faint: the first was "We love playing in Portland". The second came when they took the stage for their encore, about which the entire audience was much enthused (replete with foot-stomping & chants of "Faint, Faint, Faint, Faint...") - "You guys are sweethearts". Yes. Yes, we are.

Sigh. I can't wait to go home & bask in the glow of fabulosity.

Turkey Awards!

Today I realized what I forget to do on Thanksgiving...I forgot to be thankful. Although it's been a bit hard to remember lately, that makes a poor excuse. Because today, thinking about things, I realized I have a lot for which I am grateful. And this year it's mostly, though not exclusively, the people in my life whom I most appreciate. It may be cliched, it may be trite, but what the hell. I can't remember a time in my life when I owed more to the people closest to me. Please refer to the entry entitled "Yes." if the gooeyness overwhelms for a nice cold shower of a blog entry. This doesn't happen often, people, but I'm going to jump out on a limb here & try wearing my heart on my sleeve again. Don't worry. It will be relatively brief & relatively painless. Herewith, a small sampling of that for which I am thankful (with that most usual of caveats, in no particular order):

1. Jackie & Casey. Bless 'em. Nearly two whole months of awkward cohabitation & we still haven't come to blows. More than that, I still love them. And I think they still love me too...in spite of my bitchiness & compulsive dish washing. I hope they do, anyway. I just really appreciate their kindness & patience. You guys can live at my apartment for two months anytime. But I'll make you do the dishes.

2. My parents. They're wonderful people, & it's wonderful to have them so near. Besides, now they have no excuse whatsoever to not visit me.

3. Mandy. Whether you're cognizant of it or not, there was nobody I confided in more this past summer. Sure, I may have talked to a whole friggin' buttload of people. But I talked to you most of all. Even if all the talking was done through Google chat. Whatever. I really appreciated it. (& for the record, tonight it's Prague. How hard can it be to learn Czech? Or, um, Berlin is still close to the top. Love Parade sounds like a good place to be. Shit!)

4. Larry & MaryAnn. I thought losing them would be the inevitable corollary to a big sodding mess. I'm so happy it wasn't, because I really love them. They are fantastico!

5. Gabe & Cristine. For patiently being on the receiving end of florid details regarding the minutiae of my everyday existence since I got out here. Okay, it's more like that of my everyweekly experience. Still. It's been great. I love that y'all are only three hours away. Portland is still cooler than Seattle, though. Yeah, that's right, I said it. We dance. Next time you come down, we will get not-so-wet & be able to go to Hippo Hardware. It's a mile from my apartment, yo.

6. Gretchen & Anne, for providing shelter & support at crucial moments. Really don't know what I would've done without you, but it probably would have involved sleeping in whatever vehicle I had available at the time.

7. My job. Yeah, I know, I'm a corporate whore. I have a cubicle in an office in Kruse Woods Corporate Park. You know what though? It's gotten better. For what it is, I ain't complaining. I work with two smart people whom I respect. I have a lot of opportunity to get things accomplished. And it affords me the chance to live on the terms I want to. For that, I will endure the Morning Stretch. Plus I'm practically a computer whiz around there (truly frightening)!

8. My apartment!!! Oh it is going to be so fucking beautiful you will CRY, people. I am going to paint. I am going to make shelves (not complicated ones, so don't worry, I won't hurt myself). I am going to get furniture that I love. And fabulous cookware. I'll stop here.

And really, I'm thankful for 12 million more people & 12 million more things, so I apologize for that whom & which I've overlooked, but I'm full of beer & the bathroom calls ever more urgently. I find it wise to avoid soiling one's self whenever possible.

Oh, one last thing: "inbred" can be used as a noun. "Inbreeder" also is acceptable in the noun-ish way. "Inbreeds", however, is not. But I would like to thank the person who had homemade bumper stickers on their truck reading "Generation W" on the left side & "Bush Bashers R Inbreeds" on the right. Your clearly expressed sentiments provided me with more thirst for knowledge & more research opportunity than any of the countless occasions on which I've heard those who support Bush referred to as assholes, or evil, or stupid, or whatever. (Although it should be pretty obvious to anyone who knows me, I will point out here that I actually think fervent & blind supporters of either party qualify as inbreds.)

I Learned It By Watching You

Confession: I've been watching an obscene amount of television. It's pretty disgusting, but to be honest I don't have that many options right now. All my books are in storage. All my everything (except necessary clothing) is in storage. & has been, for the past month & a half. That will change in less than two weeks, & I will not have any television thank god BUT - here's what I've learned in the interim:

- "That 70s Show" is actually really funny.

- The HGTV & DIY channels are actually really informative for people like me who are not handy about the house, & they have inspired me to get creative with my own space, once I move in.

- I actually really like football. Though I will admit that I choose my teams based on the prettiness of their uniforms.

- I actually really watched the last few episodes of "Dancing with the Stars". And rooted for the football player. Not sure what I learned from this per se, except to be careful in the future of what I mock.

- Also, I had a completely unexpected connection with a television program aimed specifically at my demographic. The show is "Scrubs". I didn't like it at first, plus I was thrown off by seeing the second Becky from "Roseanne" & Dionne's boyfriend from Clueless in the same show. But honestly, it's grown on me. Good thing, 'cause it's on in syndication all the time & the friends with whom I'm staying like to watch it. Last night, the show's take on a classic anti-drug commercial made me laugh really, really hard. I'm pretty sure this isn't as funny if you didn't grow up in the 80s.

Yes.

It is a bit teched with melodrama, to be sure, but your humble narrator is suffering from insomnia & futile reminiscence tonight, which seems to have shifted from occasional occurrence to a most unwelcome trend; hence, she is disinclined to refrain from waxing poetic. Or, in this case, waxing not-so-poetic.

In any event, bring on 2007 already! Baby wants a new shirt.

Who Needs Television? The Revolution Will Be Smoked.

The Velveteria opened my eyes to so much more than just crying velvet Elvii.

What is "Hip"?

Last night I ventured into the bowels of the Doug Fir Lounge for more or less the first time ever. The reason? A (rather smashing) show by those keyboard-craz(ed)y Brit boys, Hot Chip. The Doug Fir is apparently brought to us by the folks responsible for my beloved, much-missed La Luna, the now-defunct all-ages club that was my high school haven. How can I forget the time when, at the age of 16, I had my very first sighting of a man in leather chaps, while rolling about on the floor drinking smuggled-in Long Island Iced Teas with my friend Misty? Quite a experience for an impressionable country girl.

Anyway, the Fir has a whole "Twin Peaks"-y/log cabin thing going on. Though, honestly, the walls downstairs look more like shaped baguettes in their final rise than logs. But, um, that's probably just me. The basic impression I've had is that the Fir is a cool-looking place with cool-looking people who are all looking at you to see if you're cool. Hipsters ahoy!

If there is one thing I am not, it is cool. And I exemplified that truth last night: I totally fell down the stairs walking back from the bathroom. I didn't even have the excuse of being drunk to camoflauge my utter un-coolness! Also, I grabbed some girl's hair in a desperate & futile attempt to defy the laws of gravity. Sooo not cool.

But by then, I was well on my way to unearthing an amazing discovery: the Portland variety of hipster is, by & large & unlike most other strains, not too cool for school. The door guys were super-friendly & nice. So were the bartenders. & yes, dear reader, even the audience members were afflicted with the same congeniality. With the possible, & quite understandable, exception of the girl whose hair I pulled. At the front of the stage, while waiting for HC to go on, I had pleasant, friendly conversations with all in my immediate vicinity. Additionally, although I've only been to two shows in Portland since I've been back, I've thus far found the audience enthusiasm very impressive. Imagine - you part with your hard-earned dollars to go out & see a show, & you're actually excited to be there. Instead of standing still with arms folded, you dance. If you don't dance, you at least nod your head & tap your feet. When a song is over, you applaud & holler as though it were the last song you'd ever hear. Judging from the reactions of the bands I've seen here, this is not a phenomenon they experience on the road with great frequency. At the Dresden Dolls, "fucking awesome" was the appellation bestowed. Last night, one of the opening bands said it had been their "favorite show ever".

This all kind of makes up for the rain. Methinks I have discovered the secret of survival in the land of sog.

Oh, & reason #1228 why I love it here: DJ Assault & the Egyptian Lover are doing a show at a club this Saturday! Side note: appropriately enough for a venue hosting the man behind "A Strange Place (The Alezby Inn)", the club also has queer girl nights called "Tart" & "Cupcake". I'm hoping to go & hook up with cute lesbian bakers. My apartment is so less than a mile away from the club. Also I'm hoping that cute lesbian bakers will be less likely to call me a creepy number of times & get mad at me when I don't want to talk about my feelings after spending a whole four hours together. I may be aiming too high there, but we'll see.

Reason #1229, you may or may not ask? The Slits are doing a free in-store performance at Jackpot Records next Tuesday before their full-on show at Dante's. So, if my temporarily flat-broke ass can't afford the real show, I can still see 'em.

Oh, & I didn't mention it before, because it seemed so obvious, but: Hot Chip were fucking awesome live. Go, run, go now & see them if they're playing anywhere near you. If they aren't, never fear: they divulged last night that they'll be touring the States again next year. & allegedly, they have a new album in the works, from which they played a couple tracks.

Why I *Heart* Target Like the Yuppie Scum I Am

They actually have a link for "Pink Kitchen". While I find the idea of an all-pink kitchen a bit questionable (I'm not that kind of girl), I love Love LOVE this food processor.

God bless KitchenAid & their little pink hearts.

I'm Starting to Wonder Why I Moved Back Here...

At least there's some variety...instead of "rain" every day, sometimes we get "showers" instead!

I'm pretty certain I'm experiencing some variant of Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief here. The first day of rain, I was actually pretty damn happy. Like the Morton Salt girl. By the third day, however, I was ANGRY. Wondering why the hell I moved back here. Eventually, I will reach acceptance. The first step - I left the umbrella in the car today. Only tourists & transplants bother with those things.

Galoshes are a new & exciting fashion option for me, however, & one I look forward to exploring.

Post the Picture Already, Jerkface!

All right, so my computer illiteracy prevents me from figuring out why my purloined picture will not post. The obvious answer? Just purloin some more pictures! Sadly, neither of these are from the show I saw at the Crystal Ballroom (which, for the record, is a pretty fantastic venue & comes complete with a spring-loaded dance floor (so when people get all excited & jump up down all around, the dance floor jumps with them)). And though the pics are good, they still don't do justice to Girl Doll.

Be Still My Heart

Hotness is relative. For instance, this past weekend I saw three bands, two in Seattle & one in Portland, all with strong feminine presences (i.e., hot chicks). CSS is all girls. Except for the drummer, but I forgive his testosterone in light of his utterly fantastic mustache. Really, it's a mustachio. Anyway, they rock. I saw them in Baltimore a few months ago & it was good, but this was better. Makes sense. First album, first tour, getting accustomed to playing live, etc. My complaints remain the same - "CSS Suxxx", well, sucks, as does the album version of "Art Bitch", which is the version they play live. BUT, otherwise they were super-awesome. Back to the point - my friends & I saw the girls hanging outside their tour bus in front of the venue prior to the show. They were cute, but something was...lacking. One of us even questioned the wisdom of the lead singer's leopard-print tights. When they got on stage, though, it was another story. They were HOT. They ROCKED. We danced our asses off, which is more than I can say for the majority of people in attendance. Um, hipsters can suck it. Seriously, if you're just gonna stand there with folded arms, why did you even bother leaving the house? Whatever - I had a great time.

CSS opened for Ladytron. They are a foursome with 2 guys & 2 girls. Like CSS, they rocked, only in a more Euro-aloof way. Also like CSS, the girls were hot (& there was a mustachio involved on one of the dudes). (And of course, nobody danced. Christ almighty, fuck-tards, get with it!) Personally I preferred the Bulgarian, which is funny 'cause the Brit chick pretty much had the same hair I have, only all dark-like. The Bulgarian, though, had a bit more Jane Wiedlin to her.

Two days later, I decided to go see the Dresden Dolls in Portland. Am I ever glad I did (thank you, thank you, thank you, Ross)! I'm not going to go into a big diatribe on their music. Let's just say that Girl Doll had a Kurt Weill sticker on her keyboard. And the music, as well as the stage performance itself, is awesome. Anyway, compared to her, the Brazilians were adorable & the Euros were cute. Girl Doll, however, was fucking HOT. I don't know her name. I don't know if I want to know her name, or anything else about the Dolls besides the fact that there are two of them, Girl Doll & Boy Doll. I don't even know if I want to see still photographs. But on the stage, at her keyboard with her My Little Ponys on display, she was the most sexually charged rock star presence I've yet experienced. Good lord! I was glad I'd bought the Dresden Dolls panties at the merch booth, because I hadn't worn any & I should have. She was all hair-of-fire & made up with lots of black eyeliner, wearing some type of black lace hot pants & garters & stockings (a girl after my own heart, there). You could say she was saucy. I'm sure the sexually-charged lyrics didn't hurt my overall impression (sample: "Guess how many fingers/Okay/Guess how many more I can fit there/Guess right & you get the toaster/But you know misguessing gets you nowhere"). As the show went on, she started losing her voice, & even that was hot. I'm in love. Really, there's no way of doing it justice. All I can say is I wish I'd been doing naughty things with her in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer building on Saturday night. Is this what it must have been like to see Mick Jagger on stage in the 60s? Is that why the Rolling Stones can get away with being rubbish now? Whatever. I don't think Mr. Jagger, even his heyday, would have had quite the same effect on me.

(P.S. Okay, her name is Amanda Palmer. The picture, if Blogger ever chooses to actually display it, DOES NOT do her justice. But it is from the show last night. I *heart* Flickr, for the record.)

Wyoming: AKA the End of the World

Wyoming was by far the most amazing state through which I drove on my recent cross-country jaunt. It looks like a sci-fi movie starring Don Johnson, at least the part that I-80 goes through. Alien rock formations, strange plant life...it was the only time in my four days that I actually wanted to stop & tourist it up. My ability to refrain from going to Yellowstone was aided in large part by the persistent howls of my cat, however; luckily, Old Faithful will most likely continue to live up to its name & I can one day journey back. Minus a certain cupcake-brained four-legged mammal.

In addition to appearing so apocalyptic as to inspire the naming of my car (henceforth it is a simple Corolla no more - my other, non-living baby is THE ROAD WARRIOR; it's a more fitting appellation than one might initially be inclined to think, but that is a story for another time), Wyoming was for me the Land of Questions. Such as: what is the Continental Divide, if not merely a cinematic childhood memory from the 80s so obscure that IMDb does not list it (& no, I'm not talking about the one with John Belushi)? Plateaus - why? Wherefore do mountain ranges go up & down (okay, north & south if you want to get all technical) and not left & right? Undoubtedly that's a simple one, but I've always been more a fan of ruminating on questions than establishing concrete answers.

It is with sadness, however, that I confess I was not afforded the opportunity to see the State Mythical Creature of Wyoming - the jackalope. Another time, methinks.

Oh, Sweet Sweet Potato of the Sea

This World of Ours It Felt Brand New

Full disclosure: I was going to make a full disclosure. Then I remembered that art does not exist without the viewer/reader/listener/etc. And that individual interpretation need not make excuses for being intrinsically, unavoidably, personal. Why, for instance, am I moved to tears by the photography of Andre Kertesz, yet continually find every encounter of Andy Warhol's oeuvre insufferable? Who cares? It just is. Because of who I am. I don't have to justify my reactions/feelings/existence, any more than anybody else has to.

Disclosures aside, New Order's "Face Up" is the only thing I've been able to listen to for two months. All right, so I did spend an evening with Fiona Apple's "Never Is A Promise". And I did listen to Eazy-E on repeat on a six-hour drive. But this is the song to which I find myself continually turning. It is my comfort. It is my mac & cheese. It is my hot chocolate with marshmallows on a cold winter's day.

Somebody told me recently that they find the tone of this song to be one of anger. I don't feel that way. This is a song of sadness, of taking tumbles, of things not being that way. The way you thought they were. It's a reaction to that, but not really a venomous one, despite the best (or worst?) efforts of the narrator. When Bernard Sumner sings "Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you", sure, he's angry. But he's also hurt, confused & bitter. And no one emotion outweighs any other. "I always knew you were cold" ends one verse; "At the start you had a heart" begins the next. This is a narrator giving into his instinctual emotions of pain, yet simultaneously finding himself unable to deny the beauty of what was, in spite of the hurt that is. I.e., "Don't let anybody tell you/What you should do/because it's not that way" into a repeat of the chorus. You can hear Sumner's voice tearing throughout the song (most particularly in the chorus) - the narrator doesn't know what to feel. He may not be able to bear the thought of you, but don't fool yourself for one second into believing that he's not going to think about you anyway. Perhaps a mere glance at the lyrics would lead one to believe that this song is angry - but a listen, a real listen, obliterates the easy interpretation of the song into a singular, definable emotion.

Guess what he's going to do to you? Sure, he sounds all pissed off, but you know what? He's got no idea what he's going to do.

News Flash!

This blog-thing is on indefinite hiatus.

I just couldn't let its last post be about Angelina Jolie.

It's A Small World After All

I may have joked about it...I may even have taken it semi-seriously...but, really, never thought I'd actually be RIGHT about it.

It turns out that Angelina Jolie really does want the continental sampler pack of children. "Hmm...I've got one from Asia...one from Africa...now one from North America...where should I go next, South America, Europe, or Australia?"

Given the level of my correctness about this, I don't think it too far-fetched to imagine that she will not stop until she gets herself a penguin from Antarctica, adopts it & christens it Yomama Jolie-Pitt.

Unless she takes a second go-round on the contintental baby carousel. And, you know, I think she might just be noble & brave & even selfless enough to do it.

MY GOD PEOPLE. How do you go from hottest creature in the universe to its whackest bony bore in such a short amount of time? I'm sure somewhere, deep down, Billy Bob Thornton is to blame for this.

Manna From Heaven

This is probably the most-requested baked good I've ever made, thanks to a couple of multi-road-trippin' fools I know. And actually, it's good for summer, too - sure, there's cooking & baking & some "hot in the kitchen" goin' on, but once the bierocks (pronounced BEER-rocks) are done, you've got 12 tasty treats that make great on-the-go lunches & should last for a little while (provided you don't eat them all at once, of course). Room temp, warmed in the oven - they're fantabulous either way. These come courtesy of 18th & 19th century Russian Mennonites & are now also made in south-central Kansas. I'd like to dedicate the posting of this recipe in particular to Gabe Traber - now you've no excuse not to make them yourself, darlin'.

BIEROCKS

For Dough:
1 tsp. active dry yeast
5 cups bread flour (unbleached - as if I needed to specify that)
1/2 cup sugar
Salt (Kosher or sea is always best, fuck iodized)
1 1/2 cups lukewarm milk
10 tbsp. butter, melted
2 eggs, lightly beaten

For Filling:
3 tbsp. vegetable oil
1 yellow onion, peeled & finely chopped
1 lb. ground beef
4 cups shredded green cabbage
1/4 lb. mild cheddar cheese, grated
2 tbsp. dijon mustard
Freshly ground black pepper (as though there were any other kind)

For dough, dissolve yeast in 2 tbsp. warm water in a small bowl. Mix together flour, sugar & 1/2 tsp. salt in a large bowl. Add milk, 8 tbsp. butter, and eggs to yeast, then stir into flour (if dough is too dry, add more water). Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead until elastic, about 8 minutes. Put dough in an oiled bowl, turning it to coat with oil, then cover bowl with a clean dish towel and set aside for dough to rise until doubled, about 30 minutes. Punch dough down, then set aside to rise for 30 minutes more.

For filling, heat 2 tbsp. oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add onions and cook until soft, about 15 minutes. Increase heat to medium-high, add beef, and brown for 8 more minutes. Stir in cabbage, cook for 10 minutes, then add cheese and mustard and season to taste with salt and pepper. Cook for 5 minutes more, then set aside to cool.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Return dough to floured surface and divide into 12 balls. Roll each piece, one at a time, into a 6" round. Spoon about 1/4 cup beef mixture into the center of each round, then fold edges of round in and pinch closed. Place, seam side down, on an oiled (or parchment paper-lined) baking sheet and set aside to rise for 20 minutes. Bake until golden, 15-20 minutes. Brush tops with remaining 2 tbsp. butter.

Bliss out on one of humanity's utterly perfect creations.

Protocol Be Damned-ing, Part II: The Quickening

Today when I awoke the first thing I asked myself (after, Why are my cats such assholes sometimes?) was, Self, you went shopping yesterday. What else don't you usually do? To which Self replied somewhat shame-facedly, Hiking. (The shame derives from the fact that two years ago, I was immensely fond of hiking & engaged in it often. Then I kinda skipped hiking last year.) I slapped my knee & said, Self, that's even better than shopping.

So I went to Shenandoah National Park & hiked my out-of-form ass off. Though I cringed as I paid my $15 vehicle fee (next time, I'm ponying up the $30 for an annual pass), forge on I did. Skyline Drive is 105 miles of Enormously Gorgeous, though I was glad to endure only 15 miles at the 35 MPH speed limit. First, I went to Hawksbill Mountain, which is the highest point in the park at 4,051 feet above sea level. And immediately discovered that, um, I need to hike more. My uphill endurance is nil. Sheesh. However, upon completion of the 700-foot ascent, I was rewarded with an absolutely AMAZING near-360-degree view. A falcon caught my eye, & luckily I overheard my fellow hikers' conversation with a gentleman who was kind of parked on a rock. Apparently, five peregrine falcons had just been released into the wild - they are to be fed through the end of July, & he was keeping an eye on them. Upon leaving that pinnacle, the downhill mode was in effect, thankfully. And I was so stupid happy to be hiking again, finally. I had this goofy grin on my face the whole time (as long as I wasn't going uphill). 'Tis a pity my digital camera's battery compartment went kaphlooey, but alas! there was precious little to be done about that today.

So completely happy was I that upon reaching the denouement of this 2.9 mile circuit, I was sad that it was over. Never fear! I had a map which told me that not more than 3 miles down the road was another circuit, of 4 miles in length. It followed along a creek & there were some waterfalls & whatnot. I happily flounced downhill for 2 miles, pausing here & there to sit on various rocks in the midst of the creek & read some of Rainer Maria Rilke's Duino Elegies,which was so unbelievably perfect an experience I don't think I shall attempt to read Rilke far outside such settings again.

Of course, what you may have noticed is that I was going downhill for 2 miles. On a 4 mile circuit. I'm sure you can imagine what's opposite of downhill, which is what I experienced over the next 2 miles. But that's of little consequence now - I hiked & I'm happy & I got all sweaty & definitely worked off that beer of which I've been a bit too fond lately & I communed with nature & saw CHIPMUNKS! (which are so much cooler than squirrels) & loads of centipedes, which are really fun to watch & even a deer nonchalantly nibbling on a tree branch on the roadside. And I came home & oh my god took the most bee-you-tee-full bath EVER & put on my new girl clothes & yes even the heels (don't know how long I'll last in those).

In conclusion may I say: Shopping = Good; Hiking = BETTER. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Oh Baby Yeah, Don't Stop

What is it about film/BBC adaptations of Jane Austen novels that rubs so gently yet effectively against the clitoris of my emotional vagina? I like a good period film (as in era, not cycle) plenty, but something about Jane Austen movies just does me in (except Emma, but for that I blame the well-bred high-strung filly that is Gwyneth Paltrow).

Perhaps it can be related to the utter simplicity of the stories. Take girl who is allegedly bereft with regard to financial situation (yet, poor as they are purported to be, still have servants) + rich man, throw in a few complications, then (of course) end with all well & love conquering. The beloved sister experiencing parallel travails is optional. All any of the characters has to worry about is love. The "poor" aspect never really affects anything, except to perhaps throw a minor wrench in the middle of the movie. Hey, if all I had to do all day was giggle, wander about & fall in love, I'd be a happy camper. There is something so simplistic yet endearing at work here. Although I know some people really don't care for Austen, I don't see what the issue is, so long as you don't take it too seriously. They're like well-written & well-executed Harlequin romance novels. Naturally, every one makes me cry as the fingers slowly move from clit to vaginal penetration. Not exactly high-school-curriculum worthy, but definitely valuable as comfort food.

The most recent adaptation, 2005's Pride & Prejudice, I find myself unable to judge for the above captioned reasons. It seemed a little over-directed - but I can't fault Joe Wright for wanting to provide a fresh take. I liked the window theme. However, the director of photography seems to have fallen prey to the John Toll school of cinematography - 2/3 of the movie is drenched in those warm "golden afternoon" i.e. yellow filter tones. Seriously, people. Blech.

Whatever. As long as they keep making 'em, I'll keep watching 'em.

(Note: I don't generally care much for Keira Knightley (a bit too bony for me), but if she continues making movies where she smiles & laughs as much as she does in this one, I'll be forced to revise my opinion. She's irresistible doing either. Oh & I'm sorry - while Matthew Macfayden suffices as Darcy, he can't even touch Colin Firth...but (sigh) who can? Firth owns Darcy.)

We're S-H-O-P-P-I-N-G

Terribly sorry, Pet Shop Boys, I realize your song is uber-political & all - but really, when you wrap a critique of Thatcherism around such an eminently chantable chorus, how can you expect me to not use it in reference to the glorious capitalist orgy in which I today indulged?

The first thing I bought was the best thing I bought - yes, the plant which belongs to that gorgeous beast pictured above is now MINE. It makes me want to drop acid & just stare at it for 8 hours until I completely understand its myriad complexities. Fuck it, I don't even need acid to do that. Orchids fucking rule.

So, the thing is that my overall rule with this whole "blog" is to generally not superfluously specificate my day-to-day personal life info. I-did-this-&-then-this-happened-&-I-bought-that-&-after-that-I-talked-to-so-&-so is as boring to me as it is to everyone else. I mean, obviously, these posts are about me, but I guess what it's not meant to be is a means of exploring the deritus of my personal life on the internet (that need is fulfilled by my actual journal). Nothing against people who like to blog about what they ate for lunch with who, but for me I find it most beneficial to explore the things'n'thoughts that occur to me, few & far between as they may be. That said, I'm totally breaking my protocol for this post.

As I'm sure some (okay, probably all) of you know, my boyfriend is in Barcelona. And I am in...Charlottesville. It's one thing when a friend goes away - but it's kind of hard when the person with whom you share your life is suddenly absent from it, even if only for a week, to go partying/journalist-ing in Barcelona. Don't get me wrong - he's having a great time & I am totally ass-happy thrilled for him - but it's been somewhat of a challenge to get excited about going to the grocery store or changing the cat litter given the circumstances. You smell me?

So when I woke up this morning I thought to myself, Self, what don't you ever really do? And being a girl, self replied, Shopping! I'm the sort of person who can talk myself out of buying band-aids when I'm bleeding, so you can imagine how frequently I engage in pleasure-shopping. But on this morning I said, Self, that's a really good idea. And discovered that my capacity for multi-hour extended shopping binges far exceeds what I had previously thought. It isn't even that I bought so much - I actually spent the last hour and a half just looking for a PLAIN SUMMER-RIFIC BROWN SKIRT, which apparently is a difficult thing to acquire. Shorts are far more plentiful, and look an awful lot like skirts on the racks. But shorts are pants gone retarded, & I hate nearly all pants to begin with. I have a couple pairs of pants. I wore one of them like a year and a half ago.

But anyway, you know how people say that shopping is therapeutic? This was a big surprise to me, but it's actually true. A few plants, some shoes, a couple tops, a skirt, droppin' some bucks at Victoria's Secret...I even got a bright, yet tasteful, orange razor to finally replace the one that disappeared in Rome, a purchase prompted mostly by M. taking his razor with him. My body hair stubbornly refusing to cease growing until his return coupled with my desire to wear things without sleeves meant something had to be done.

Anyway, yeah...S-H-O-P-P-I-N-G was a surprisingly effective path to feeling B-E-T-T-E-R. I should get down with my girl self more often.

Ice Beer, Ohhh Ice Beer, Ice Beer

For the record, the song in "reality" is titled "Eisbaer" but that wouldn't make much sense given the context. (But oh! talk about a memory-connotation-laden song...Ross, you should know what I'm talkin' about (hint: think DJ Dan). Though your memories of it are undoubtedly of a slightly more pained variety).

Anyway, this delicious, deliciouser, & yes even muy caliente delicioso brew comes to us from Seattle. From the Pyramid Brewery. I've kept an eye out for this Apricot Weizen in the microbrewery wasteland that is Virginia ever since I first delected upon its delectableness while in Oregon last year. Of it I am so fond that I took this picture all by my little ol' self, just to prove that I actually have it. Funny thing is - me & fruity beers, not so much ('less we're talking about lambic). But there's something about this one - the aroma is so good you can practically smell the fuzz. It's light-tasting but still tasty & somehow there's a perfect undetectable balance betwixt beir und fruit.

Well you may imagine my delight when, after deciding to spoil myself with a nice Belgian from the Wine Warehouse, I espied two six-packs of this baby near the register. Could the timing have been any better? The perfect summertime beer, returning to me at the perfect moment when such blissful happenstance is most thoroughly appreciated. Aaahhh...life is good.

Although there may be more than a bit of "thrill-of-the-chase" syndrome in my effusive praise, if you see this beer, give it a whirl.

Dots are Fun!

Stumbled across this bit-o-whimsy whilst fruitlessly searching YouTube for Dwinell Grant films. 'S okay - this is fruit enough to compensate.

Norman McLaren is apparently something of a national hero amongst our north-of-the-border neighbors. This despite being, well, Scottish & all. Dots (1940) is pretty neat. Not only were all of the images directly painted onto the film, but the soundtrack was directly scratched upon it as well. I saw McLaren's Pas de Deux a few years ago & was quite impressed, so when this presented itself to mine eyes I jumped on it like a sailor on a whore. And thereafter was I sated for at least ten minutes.

Squishy noises. Squishy images. One minute seventeen seconds of FUN.

New Boyfriend

This is Bernard Sumner, my new boyfriend. I haven't dumped either Lloyd Cole or Greg Dulli (although after that last Twilight Singers album, we're definitely on hiatus) - I've got lots o' love so there's plenty to give Bernard (& no, I won't be calling him "Barney").

I've always kept New Order at arm's length, for the largely ridiculous reason that I've felt like they "belonged" to the person who really introduced me to them. So, I've heard the albums loads of times, but I've never actually really, truly listened to them before now (excepting Technique, of course; & also Get Ready). It's officially love. I guess properly speaking the whole band should be my new boyfriends (& ex-girlfriend), but I'm singling out Bernard for the utterly arbitrary & completely obvious reason that he's the singer, & I find myself more readily identifying with his voice than, say, Hooky's bass.

That said, however, although Bernard may be the poster child for my NO love, if I saw them in concert, I would so be wearing four pairs of panties for stage-throwing purposes.

I've Got a Peppercorn in My Behind

New favorite phrase EVER. Apparently it's got something to do with being restless. It's a German saying...of course.

Second new favorite phrase ever comes courtesy of E-40. "You smell me?" meaning "You understand me?" Do I ever!

I can't wait to incorporate these into my everyday conversation as frequently as possible. In fact, I've totally got a peppercorn in my behind about it. You smell me?

Boy George Don't Know the Half of It

I hate it when I make a resolute vow not to do something & then when presented with the opportunity immediately go ahead & do it anyway.

Like crying at airports. Dammit! I suppose it's more reasonable than when, say, ABBA makes me cry (which isn't often, but has been known to happen on occasion). Still! It makes precious little sense to my waking mind; but apparently the tear ducts just bypass my enormous super-powerful brain & connect directly to my secretly enormouser & super-powerfuler heartstrings. Or summit stupid like that.

I did inadvertently devise an effective lather-rinse-repeat strategy, though, which I'd highly recommend (possible variations are of course infinite) - two listens of NO's "Low-life" on the drive home followed by two beers, two episodes of The Muppet Show on DVD & a two-hour nap. Felt mucho better.

Bernard Sumner & the Swedish Chef know what I need.

Why Oh Because

I love me some Donovan, just in case that wasn't already patently obvious.

& I love the song "Happiness Runs". With nary a smirk, sneer or knowing sidelong glance. This song is the mortal enemy of irony & cynicism. It makes me so, well, happy.

What would the world be like if Donovan had beat out Dylan (see: D.A. Pennebaker's Don't Look Back) to become the generational voice turned revered (practically sainted) elder statesman?

You'd probably hear a lot more flowers & sunshine in music.

The Earth Will Not Nourish 'Em

Of late, rain in Charlottesville has veered more toward farcical notion than needed reality. In fact, it quite reminds me of a remark made in Cold Comfort Farm, that most excellent film based upon dubious book (seriously, don't even get me started on how great the movie is, or how grievously Kate Beckinsale has squandered her talent since):


"The seeds wither as they fall into the ground, and the earth will not nourish 'em. The cows are barren and the sows are farren and the King's Evil and the Queen's Bane and the Prince's Heritage ravages our crops. 'Cos why? 'Cos there's a curse on us, Robert Poste's child."


But tonight - oh, wonderful tonight - it is really & truly raining! Not in the apocalyptic thunderstorm fashion so common round these parts, but a semi-quiet & consistently steady downpour.

Actual, real rain. Hurrah!

Fellow Citizens, You Confound Me

I knew the U.S. & I weren't gonna work out when I saw a Sunday newspaper ad for Uncrustables. Apparently throughout my life I have failed to comprehend the vast difficulty inherent in spending 5 minutes taking two slices of bread & smearing them with peanut butter & jelly, then, should it offend one's delicate sensibilities, cutting the crust off. Quelle horror! Right then & there I decided the U.S. & I had to break up. (I'm not even going to get into the complete lameness of taking issue with bread crust.)

But even worse. Smuckers was able to get a patent on this? They have sued other people who make foul frozen ravioli-like objects stuffed with pb&j? Oh wait, it looks like the patent is more generally for "a sealed crustless sandwich for providing a convenient sandwich without an outer crust which can be stored for long periods of time without a central filling from leaking outwardly." Um, which kind of sounds like things people have been making for centuries (i.e., bierocks & pasties). Does the U.S. hand out patents like so much Halloween candy or what? Although, to somebody's credit, "as of April 2006, the patent was reexamined and the claims were rejected. Smuckers has appealed the rejection to the Board of Patent Appeals and Interferences(BPAI). The BPAI has yet to render its judgement" (Wikipedia).

Like sandwiches are so frickin' hard to make. Maybe Uncrustables thaw magically in a matter of seconds (I wouldn't put it past you, America, to devise some nefarious means for this) but assuming they do obey some basic laws of nature, I'm thinking it's actually faster to make a sandwich than to wait for an Uncrustable to thaw. But then you might miss a minute of your TV show. And that's not what life, liberty & the pursuit of happiness are about, now, is it?

I want OUT.

ä-n&-"mä-t&-'pE-&, -"ma

onomatopoeia

hee hee! What a great word. It's almost hard for me to believe its validity, let alone that it has such an amazing yet appropriately hazy correspondence betwixt actual word & definition.

Also, for a good time go to Merriam-Webster & have fun putting together audio pronounciations of various words (hint: making M-W say "ass fiesta" is mightily amusing.)

Having said that, I am willing to accept that the online-dictionary-as-good-time concept might be unique to me. There was a vicious rumor when I was in 7th grade that I read the dictionary for fun (couldn't I just have been a slut like everyone else?). Not true! though I cannot deny I would occasionally open my Webster's Unabridged Dictionary to a random page, just to learn a new word.

But that is NOT the same as "reading" the dictionary FOR FUN.

Um, yeah, so...

Watching

• The Marriage Circle by Ernst Lubitsch
• The Eyes of the Mummy by Ernst Lubitsch
• Unseen Cinema: Early American Avant-Garde Film 1894-1941

Reading

• Romantic Comedy in Hollywood, from Lubitsch to Sturges by James Harvey
• Ernst Lubitsch's American Comedy by William Paul
• Theda Bara: A Biography of the Silent Screen Vamp, with a Filmography by Ronald Genini

...in case you didn't know, I'm a research freak. I only hope that if anybody else in C-ville wants to check books out of the library on E.L. this summer, they can read either French or German.

The Theda Bara is just for fun, though. According to Eve Golden, "she is one of the few stars responsible for a word -- 'vamp' -- being placed both on the dictionary and in everyday use." Unfortunately, nearly all of Bara's films have been lost in the intervening years (Netflix has one), but ever since I first saw the above picture when I was ~15, I've been semi-intoxicated with the idea of her. (It's a still from Cleopatra (1917) - she was the first to portray the Egyptian queen on-screen.)

"What an Artist Dies in Me!"

That's right, kids, on this day a mere 1,938 years ago (aka AD 68), Nero Claudius Cæsar Augustus Germanicus stabbed himself in the throat. That most noble of emperors - killer of adoptive fathers, stepbrothers, birth mothers & aunts alike; abandoner of "imperial functions in favour of the equestrian and dramatic and musical arts"; wearer of flower-patterned mini-tunics with frilly muslin collars; persecutor of Christians; & player of lyres - was induced to commit suicide by the revolt of the senate & the army against his reign of theater-lovin' tyranny.

Shockingly, it seems his body was not thrown into the Tiber.

Note: One of my personal favorite Nero stories involves the Games of AD 55, in which Nero decreed that the heretofore omnipresent praetorian guard were relieved of their obligation to maintain order at said Games, so that the citizens of Rome might feel they were afforded greater freedom. The result? "[S]erious brawls broke out between the gangs favouring rival ballet-dancers..." (Michael Grant, The Twelve Caesars). But of course!

Kay Vs. Miriam; or, Everybody Wins!

Okay, seriously, who can choose between Kay Francis & Miriam Hopkins? And does Ernst Lubitsch demonstrate his genius in any way more clearly than in his ability to cast hot, smart women (or at least women who come across as such in their roles)? I mean, I'm not writing an essay on Trouble in Paradise (1932) just because it's a great film (which it is). Getting to spend a lot of time watching Francis & Hopkins is a major plus - Miriam Hopkins' gown in the first scene alone is worth the price of admission.

Far be it from me to engage in idolatry of eras past whilst bemoaning an inadequate present, but Lubitsch's film has more joy & sex - & takes more joy in sex, really - in a single frame than any recent film of which I can think (see also: Lubitsch's Design for Living (1933), also starring Hopkins). Q: Why is sex either nonexistent, rendered impotent by excessive cutesy-ness, or made so ugly as to be unbearable in nearly every contemporary movie which flickers across a screen? Even allegedly sophisticated Euro-film suffers from this problem, at least insofar as I am aware. I do believe that Catherine Breillat is trying to single-handedly eradicate the act of sex entirely by ensuring that anybody who suffers through one of her films (& one is enough, believe me) will feel so gross about sex that they will never want to engage in it again.

Ugh. I don't want to think about her anymore. I'm gonna look at the rest of my pictures of beautiful girls from the 1930s.

Eremotherium laurillardi

Oh gi-normo ground sloth, why do you freak me out so? Little camels, big bugs & T. Rex (no, not that one, this one) could not do what the sight of your gi-normo skeleton at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History did to me. You are prehistory incarnate.

These Boots Were Made For...Oh, Never Mind

I likes walking. Is good. Fun. Wherever.
Even if it's not always happening on the Appian Way. Still good. Walking gets down with its bad self. Hooray for feet, for legs, for walking!

Lord Knows I Try To Be Good

I’ve indulged a blind adoration for Garbage ever since their first album. I’ve seen them live 3 times (granted, the last time was 9 years ago, but still). Shirley Manson is super-hot, not least because of the stylin' Scottish accent. I loves me an accent. I totally had a crush on her way before I figured out that it was actually okay for me to like boys and girls. Even as I’ve grown older & stopped taking the lyrics quite so seriously, my weakness for Garbage persists.

Their second album, Version 2.0, is their best (okay, I haven’t heard Bleed Like Me yet, so I’m taking a bit of a leap here). And I loved every song on it from the moment I bought it. Except one. Always, always, always would I skip Track 11, “Wicked Ways”. Hated it with the fire of a thousand suns. It sounded nothing like the rest of the album. There were no lyrical edges for me to identify with & cling to, like “I was angry when I met you/I think I’m angry still”, or “Somebody get me out of here/I’m tearing at myself/Nobody gives a damn about me/Or anybody else”. She didn’t sound mad, pissed-off, sad, or depressed. For my listening purposes, “Wicked Ways” simply did not exist.

Until one day, several years & much personal growth later, I listened to it again. And suddenly loved it. Now, it’s probably my favorite song on the album. All the things I once hated about it have become the things I like. It doesn’t sound like anything else – it’s light. Buoyant, practically (like a certain comic-strip-based flightless water fowl I can think of). I love that the lyrics & delivery aren’t overly heavy & dark. I love that she sounds all flirty (the way she sings “C’mon sugar, let’s go out tonight” is one of the best moments) & insincerely apologetic (really, Shirley, you can attempt to sell “And I tried, and I tried, and I tried” as many times as you like – I’m not buying.) She may have tried to mend her wicked ways, but she’s totally blaming you for her ultimate inability, no, unwillingness, to do so (“Clutch your pictures of the Pope/Pray to God for love & hope”) before she moves on to the next unwitting man.

The point, & believe it or not there is one, is that it is things such as this which encourage me to pause before passing o’erly hasty judgment. With regard to music, of course, but also with regard to most of the rest of everything else. It’s not that I don’t have opinions, it’s more that it’s important to me to try & recognize the fluidity & mutability of them. To not get stuck in the mud, but go with the flow, more. (Although I did make the point up just to conclude the post, the sentiments expressed are actually pretty true.)

The second point is that Scot-rockers & buoyant water fowl rule!

Un Very Stylish Fille

Poll time, people. Even though there's only a handful of yous out there. Still - advice, please. Is my new dress appropriate for my office job? I work in a very casual-type office, & I've definitely felt comfortable wearing all manner of sparkly skirts & patterned stockings & the like, but my jury's out on the strappy debate. I usually do shy away from straps in the office, but I think that's mostly because all of the strappy things I own also highlight my ta tas. It's not that I haven't been known to wear boob shirts to work, but boob + strap seems excessive.

My thought is, this definitely does not show my tits. It's actually quite modest, even with the straps. (Modest Straps would be a great name for something.) So, what do you think - yea or nay on the work tip? Full confession: I'm actually wearing it at work today (so Mandy, consider yourself obliged to respond). I'm fine with it, but I'm looking for more of a consensus opinion.

Mmm Coffee Pie I Love You

The perfect summer dessert. Especially when it's too damn hot to drink coffee, or bake things in the oven for long periods of time. Puerto Rican in origin, this is one of those rare, impeccable creations. The ease of making-to-impressiveness ratio on this one is high.

Crust:
1 package Nilla wafers, crushed
2 tsp unsweetened raw cocoa or 1 square unsweetened chocolate, grated
1/4 c light brown sugar
1/2 cup almonds
1/2 cup unsalted raw peanuts
1/4 cup walnuts
2 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 tbsp coffee liqueur
1/2 tbsp Bacardi rum, preferably brown

Filling:
1/2 c softened unsalted butter
3/4 c granulated sugar
4 tsp instant coffee, dissolved in a little hot water & cooled
3 eggs (room temperature), well beaten

Topping:
1 c heavy cream
2 tsp to 2 tbsp granulated sugar, to taste (optional)
1/2 tsp vanilla extract (optional)
chocolate-covered espresso beans (for garnish)

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Spread nuts out a baking sheet & toast for ten minutes, occasionally shaking the pan. Let cool. Finely chop nuts.

Turn oven up to 375 degrees. Combine Nilla wafers, cocoa or chocolate, brown sugar, & nuts in a bowl. In another, small bowl combine vanilla, liqueur & rum. Stir vanilla mixture into Nilla wafer mixture until smooth. Place evenly in a nine-inch pie plate, pressing the mixture firmly against the bottom & sides. Bake in the oven for 10 - 15 minutes & let cool.

In a bowl, beat the butter until creamy with a hand mixer on medium speed. Add the sugar gradually & beat until light & fluffy (about three minutes). Add the eggs slowly, beating on high speed for about 15 minutes. Turn the mixture into the pie shell, cover, & refrigerate overnight.

For the whipped cream: Place bowl (preferably metal) & beaters in the freezer for 5 minutes. Take out & put heavy cream in bowl. Beat on high speed until thickened; then, if desired, add sugar &/or vanilla. Continue beating until soft or stiff peaks are formed (whichever you prefer).

Top pie with whipped cream. Add chocolate-covered espresso beans if desired. Serve & enjoy!