reaffirming stereotypes

Paul Simms' Four Short Crushes.

now. he. kissed. her.

for a brief moment this afternoon, i found myself wanting a baby.

the moment passed.

an open letter to the United States Government

Dear Federal Government:

I cannot breathe. I miss Pseudoephedrine. Phenylephrine does nothing for my sinuses and doesn't have nearly as many letters. Please solve your meth problem another way.

Thank You.

Something's rubbing against my foot.

I went down to Eugene last night to visit my friend Ben.

me: "Let's watch Open Water. I've heard good things about it."
ben: "Sure. I haven't seen that one yet."

79 minutes later..

me: "Is that the end? that can't be the end..."
ben: "Wow. The next time somebody asks me to recommend a movie that will cheer them up, i'm definitely recommending this."

pause.

me: "Wanna go diving?"

in memoriam

where have all the restaurants gone?

it occurred to me today, whilst driving (happily? reflectively?) down Belmont, that i really miss Sweetwater. i do believe the last time i went there was on my 20th birthday, which was a long while ago. i thought about this and realized that, like many things in my life (tv series, boyfriends, perfect shades of lipstick) the things i love evaporate into thin air to remain only in my head a fond memory.

Manna Bakery (Ashland, OR) circa 1980s. best. bakery. ever. they made all my birthday cakes from age 2-16(?) i can't remember what year it closed, but next to Jim Henson's death and the deaths of my first two cats, Sophie and Nikki, it might be the worst heartbreak of my youth. if you ever had a Manna bakery cake, you would understand.

Beasy's Back Room (Ashland, OR) circa 1980s/1990s. best barbecue/southwestern food the NW ever procured. but it was their green olive laden salad that i loved (which i believe you can still get at Beasy's on the Creek today, but it's just not the same)

Bluebird(?) Cafe (Santa Monica, CA) circa 2004. best. cupcakes. ever. I used to work a few blocks away and would go there for lunch nearly every day. when i visited last August, it was a vacant store front (although, i just googled this one and it seems it may have moved to Culver City. it looks like the same place, so if you live in LA, check it out for me)

(a side cupcake note here: Magnolia Bakery in NYC? don't believe the hype)

and they say chivalry is dead...

i opened a door for a guy at Starbucks today and he was so thrilled that he paid for my coffee. ah gender roles in reverse.

a few things:

guest lecturing a class at your own school is a bit surreal. i totally sympathize with all my professors now. i felt like Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller's Day Off.

Anyone...?

Alec Wilkinson wrote a long article on the origins of Parkour and David Belle in this week's New Yorker. mmm...David Belle.

interestingly, there was a four-page ad for visitoregon.com centered on Ashland's Oregon Shakespeare Festival in the middle of the article. given the fact that i'm studying narrowcasting in my capstone course, i began to wonder if every New Yorker contained this ad or just the ones sent to Oregonians. i received a credit card offer this week that was a Leo (that's the lion, not the DiCaprio) signature card. it freaked me out.

anybody want to launch a computer virus on Acxiom?

books of blood...for kids!

did you know that Clive Barker writes children's novels? i sure didn't.

I'll write you just to let you know that I'm alright

a couple of quotes for the week:

"i'm glad you're back on the hooch!" -- Chaya on my falling off the wagon. and when i fall, i fall hard. story of my life.

"yes, could you magically fill the gaping hole where the Broken Halo should be?" --me to the clerk at Fred Meyer when he asked me if he could help.

"what people can't tell from your blog and your myspace profile is how annoying you are in real life" -- my brother on how fraudulent digital avatars are.

but one Mace telling another they're annoying kind of defeats the purpose. it's what we do.

if you're an exboyfriend and i drunk text you, it was the Drop Top speaking. my apologies.

There's something about Sunday night that really makes you want to kill yourself.

i have, however, found a moderate solution to what i like to call the Sunday Night Dread: manage it so that you somehow have Monday off. all the time. it prolongs the inevitable, but i've found that procrastinating the start of my week sure does make my life easier.

except for the fact that i have work due in the morning, i could actually completely ignore the fact that it is Sunday. well that coupled with the sudden epiphany that today was easter. i only realized this in the candy aisle at Fred Meyer an hour ago.

i have now consumed the contents of a large bag of Hershey's Candy Coated Chocolate Eggs in celebration.

happy ressurection! i feel ill.

I am not your friend. I'm not your lover.

(I wrote this last week and forgot to post it. or, I had planned on posting it while on the ground in Vegas, but on account of my having to run the entire length of McCarren Airport, which included a security checkpoint and a tram, I didn't have time. I will also note that I very nearly died on this flight. Which is mostly true, but i'm prone to histrionics)

I am writing from a plane somewhere over the midwest.

On planes, I am weary. I take account of my life. If I had one last call, who would I choose? It would have been a boy, if you’d have asked me sooner. I now know I’d have been wasting my time.

If my plane’s going down, you’d better fucking answer. Voicemail before imminent death is the ultimate heartbreak. Remember this when you ignore my calls.

I’m afraid to breathe on airplanes. Even after a whole box of Airborne.

I take account of my life. But mostly, I take account of what I’ve left undone. And I don’t mean words unsaid or sunsets in Paris. It is the unmade bed, the pile of clothes.

If I should go down on a plane, there’d be dishes in my sink, dirty laundry.

I find sudden relief that any porn I [might]own is on my hard drive and will go down with me. That would be an awful last thing to worry about.

Hi mom.