of waking life

i was on the streetcar this afternoon. a man walked past me in the aisle to take the seat in front of me. he leaned over forward and tapped first the back of the seat and then the bottom with the palm of his hand, as if to make sure it was really there.

i kind of know how he feels.

literature whoring

my father said to me, over Christmas break, "I'll be really glad when you're done with your English degree so you can actually read the books i give you."

my version of multi-tasking:

100 pages of Marilynne Robinson's Gilead
100 pages of Shirley Ann Grau's Keepers of the House
100 pages of George Eliot's Mill on the Floss
50 pages of Morgan Spurlock's Don't Eat This Book

rinse. repeat.

(that's only what this weekend looks like. when i say i can't hang out, i'm probably not even lying)

the plight of an English major. i have the same professor for two of my classes. she looked at me the other day and said, "oh, you poor dear."

i'm going to go watch 40 minutes of television just to compensate.

i'm a golden god.

people keep telling me that i look really well. and i don't know what to say to that. ironic - especially - coming from your doctor.

i don't feel well. in truth, i'm not sure i can even recall a time i did feel well. i feel as if i'm a walking lie, all glowing optimism with a dark, cynical core.

maybe they see something i don't.

unrelated: i went to a tupperware party last night. there's nothing like licking blueberry flavored lube off your hand and fondling pink dildos to brighten your day.

black death in a gel-cap

in my never-ending search for an effective sleep aid, i purchased some herbal remedy at Fred Meyer that is the exact shade of black one should probably never ingest. if i should actually die before tomorrow, well, i suppose you could think of me as having gone out happy, having finally found something that could knock me out in 60 minutes or less.

if i'm checking my myspace messages at 3am however, i'm not leaving my doctor's office on friday without some fucking ambien.

related: every time i shop at the Fred Meyer on Burnside, i have an inordinate amount of young re-stocking men jump to my aid. maybe it's that lost i'm-the-most-inept-grocery-shopper look in my eye. (you mean soy milk and salami don't go together?) perhaps the winded post-yoga look of exhaustion on my face. more likely the yoga pants. either way, i think i could really go for an eighteen-year-old boy. i think that would solve everything. and by everything i mean what to do in between novels.

i got my feet off the ground in my crow position tonight. i had a bad day; this felt like a triumph. a three-second triumph, but i guess that's how guys feel.

This is not an official Rolling Stone article.

i rarely watch reality television. correction: when i do watch reality television, i rarely admit to it. however, MTV has come up with yet another brilliant concept for sucking away my life, in thirty-minute increments that should be devoted to Victorian literature or work. this time, the culprit's name is I'm From Rolling Stone. having put myself through three soul-crushing, non-bank-account-filling internships myself (some i thoroughly enjoyed; others, i care not to mention), i thought, hey, i'm curious how they're going to make coffee fetching, photocopying and the ever entertaining transcription of interviews into something as scintillating and dramatic as The Real World. i mean, there's nothing more exciting than watching somebody write. trust me - there's a reason i'm a recluse.

it's all in the casting.

one of the interns interviewed Brooklyn band We Are Scientists; it was so awkward and uncomfortable to watch, i actually had to fast forward though the scene.

Tad Friend gave a succinct review of the show in this week's New Yorker.

“Or sometimes the seed splits into a genetic mutation, and you get a two-headed calf, or twins.”

Paul Rudnick's First Love.

iCingular

ah, the iPhone.

that's funny...i use my iPod to ignore the world around me, not stay connected to it.

i fucking hope it doesn't come in pink.

"Forgiveness is like throwing a party for someone who was born two hundred years ago. You do it for your own sake and not much for anyone else."

i'm having trouble forgiving somebody. this is something i normally save for my therapist, but my next scheduled crisis management is not for another week-and-a-half. my back-up plan for situations like these is to 1) call my father ("i should be talking to my therapist, but you know, you'll do") and 2) google it.

there's no greater therapy than the internet. it's cured me almost entirely of my need for social interaction. and my fear of porn stores.

some of my personal favorite google hits for forgiveness:

this quote from Page Six. "LINDSAY Lohan has learned the art of forgiveness from her new stripper friends - despite her having once called them whores and worse"

the reading room subject list at forgivenessweb.com, which includes such hot topics as addictions/12 steps, how to forgive, the Holocaust, quotations, sermons, murder, poems and of course, the unforgivable.

it's Steve's fault.

as a professional writer, i am frustrated daily with the overuse of idioms and cliche descriptive phrases (i actually have a list of these i alternate. i believe i am not allowed to use the phrase "[they] rose to fame". which is fine by me)

i was reading this MSNBC article on Steve Jobs (which is, admittedly sort of boring) and a couple of blatantly irritating phrases jumped out at me:

"[Steve Jobs'] storybook resuscitation of Apple Computer Inc"
"his rock star status"
"the Apple view of the world"
"one of [the world's] greatest innovators"

storybook resuscitation? this writer is obviously a mac person.

“I could really get behind a relationship with a woman who had only six months to live.”

My father handed me a copy of Pam Houston’s Waltzing the Cat last week and instructed me to read the first story. For once, I complied. The above quote brought a noise out of my mouth that could only be described as a guffaw.

It made me laugh because it’s true. It made me laugh because it so accurately captures the men of my generation. It made me laugh heartily, and then, uncomfortably.

Somehow, I managed to spend New Year’s Eve at a party almost entirely comprised of married people. Somebody asked me what my resolution was; I stated quite earnestly that I was giving up men, to which they replied, “can you do that?”

It’s easier than coffee.

This is usually the time of year where people reflect on the last year of their life. Frankly, I’m tired of reflecting. I’m much more interested in moving forward for once. I’m an old pro at self-reflection. Moving forward is something I’ve struggled to learn.

My final thoughts on 2006 are this:

For whatever reason, it was the popular year to go. Something about that year-end retrospective really pulled people towards the grave this week. Like the release of holiday movies, if you’re not in before the new year, you won’t make Oscar contention. End of December? Total shoe-in for that top retrospective spot.

I’d like to thank the Academy for noticing my timely departure…

"Cell phone video image shows Hussein on gallows."

this is perhaps my favorite CNN caption ever.

god bless camera phones.