Everything Old is New Again

One thing that I've been doing a lot of since moving into the new apartment, now that I'm in a place that's all my own and not a sublet in which I'm crowded by someone else's crap, is sitting at my desk and writing in my paper journal. I haven't done that for quite a while, and I'm finding that I enjoy it as much as always.

It doesn't hurt that I finally finished one journal and have started on the rather cool new one Fozzie bought me. The man has good taste. And there's something about a blank book... it's like starting over, somehow. A clean slate. Fresh start.

I've also taken to sitting at the bar at the Font of Dionysus and scribbling away. Which, frankly, can lead to some less-than-sensible rants. Still, I'm having a good time.

There's an inherent requirement, when writing for a blog, of being, I dunno, entertaining? Knowing that people are going to be reading what you write sort of adds a requirement that you be, at least, interesting. In the paper journal, though, there are no such restrictions. It's freeing to be allowed to be boring.

When he gave me the journal, Fozzie asked me if he would ever be allowed to read what I was writing, and I told him -- faster than I would tell a chick she didn't look fat in a pair of jeans -- "No. Never." It has a lot less to do with my worrying he might find the contents offensive than revealing the true uses of the hand-written journal.

I have a bit of a reputation for being quiet; even-keeled. I don't make a public display of anger or frustration or fear or high dudgeon. I feel them, though, a lot. The outlet for those feelings is my handwritten journal. And I can tell you ('cuz I occasionally go back and read these things) that it doesn't make for riveting reading. There's a lot of whining going on between those lovely leather-bound covers. But I get it out in a healthy way without keeping it all bottled up inside.

Aren't you glad I don't do that here?

Or, at least, that I moderate the whining a little?

All Good Things...

You'll remember that recently, I made a trip to the Apple Store to replace the dead earbuds on my iPod Shuffle. I was terribly, terribly tempted by the new video iPod; so much so that I almost blew all my rent money on a new one.

I resisted.

Now I'm beginning to wish I hadn't.

My Shuffle dropped dead on me recently, and now I have no stupid mp3 player at all.

Someone recently mentioned that Mercruy was in retrograde, which was causing everyone's electronics to crash. Not being much of an astrology person, I mocked him.

Karma is a boomerang, baby. Karma is a boomerang.

Alas, replacing the iPod shuffle (with a new video iPod!) has to fall behind fixing my computer and camera on the ol' heirarchy of shitty electronics wanting fixed.

Stay tuned, and watch as the list grows and grows.

Just a Thought

Now that I've got cable, I've been watching too much TV, and have gotten even fatter. On top of that, I'm discovering and finding enthralling shows I'd have never wasted time on before I had DVR.

Witness Prison Break.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the rest of the country is going bugshit for the show. I just didn't get into it. Until now.

So here's my observation:

The producers need to give Wentworth Miller a reason for regrowing his hair. He's attractive enough with the whole shaved head thing, but really. This is much better. I'm just saying.

Lackeys Apply Here

On my last birthday, Kenjiman decided that this was my year of World Domination.

I would, according to Kenjiman, take over the world and have a year of complete success. During that celebration, however, he cautioned me to choose carefully when selecting a second in command, as they invariably switch sides at the last minute and stab you in the back, just as your evil world domination plot is falling apart and the hero is on the verge of foiling your plans.

I have, I think, come up with the perfect solution.

Rather than selecting a second in command toady, I shall have a co-dictator in my plot to rule the world: The Cajun.

Actually, it was his idea.

We had a faux date Saturday, which we'd planned before I realized that Fozz was having his last weekend of freedom before starting law school. Ooops. Luckily, Fozz has forgiven me.

The Cajun and I went to see a terrible movie, and then went to have an amazingly good dinner. But as we were walking around the West Village, killing time before the restaurant opened for dinner (we are, apparently, AARP-eligible world dominators, we eat so early) and discussing how things would be so much better if we ruled the world, The Cajun suggested that we share despot duties.

I think it's a fine idea. I can't think of anyone I'd rather have my back in a touchy situation, where some blonde, blue-eyed hollywood buffed clone was trying to wreck our evil plans to rule the world.

So here's to The Cajun, my co-conspirator in World Domination.

I Have City Limits

My friends Steve & Michelle will have something to say about this, no doubt:

You Are Austin

A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll. You're totally weird and very proud of it. Artistic and freaky, you still seem to fit in... in your own strange way. Famous Austin residents: Lance Armstrong, Sandra Bullock, Andy Roddick

What American City Are You?

Two Nice, or, Too Nice²

I don't know about where you come from, but in the circles in which I run, it's a blessed rarity to meet a person who's smart, funny and nice, but the kind of nice that seems not to have a mean bone in its body. Something to do with being in a business full of vain, venal people who're more concerned with people thinking they're nice than actually being nice.

That's of course, a gross generalization, but gross generalizations often ring true because there's more than just a kernal of truth about them.

Anyway, I've had the occasion to meet two such people in the last couple of years. Upon reflection, I'd be willing to bet that they actually do have mean bones in their bodies. They're just the kind of people who were raised to use their powers of righteous anger for good. Admirable.

Worse yet, they're both beautiful.

Anyway, they got married. The babies will be ridonkulously attractive.

It's Official

He's cute. I've gotten fat.

I Didn't Mean to Call You a Monkey, I Meant to Fling Poo

Some things are just too good to be believed.

In discussing Senator Allen's unfortnate choice of sobriquet for young Mr. SR Sidath, ChickenKurry and I had the following IM exchange:

Me: i saw that on the news this morning. something, huh?
ChickenKurry: in this weird way, i think it's kind of funny
ChickenKurry: leave it to a moron to turn "s r sidarth" into "macaca"
Me: oh, me too.
Me: i happen to love macacs, by the way. they are some of my favorite primates.
ChickenKurry: i think they're cute to look at, but they can be crazy
ChickenKurry: i think the ones in central park would chuck poo at you if you pissed them off
Me: see, that's what i love about them.
Me: i wish i could chuck poo.
ChickenKurry: you can
ChickenKurry: *ducks*
Me: watch out, macaca, here i go.

It's not often my friends allow me to fling racial epithets at them, let alone poo.

And Now for Something Completely the Same

Okay, there's a reason the women's lib movement began, and this might just be it this. Although, if that's the source of it, I'm surprised it was a movement, and not a revolution.

Oh, I forgot to mention my main reason for wanting to get cable. The imminent return of the best written show on television. Kneel down oh ye small of character and worship the creators.

Of course, my glee at its return has nothing to do with the bare-chestedness of Jamie Bamber. Not at all. No sir.

I've been so enamored of Flickr lately, that I've completely updated my picture page to incorporate Flickr slide shows. It doesn't hurt that I got to move tons of photos off my web server and store them on Flickr, thus making my delightful web host, RJ, happy. The guy's kind enough to host my site for free, so I like to keep the amount of space I use below 100 MB.

So far so good.

My beloved Molly Ivins hits the nail on the head, yet again:

"I personally have been sleeping more soundly at night knowing that Michael Chertoff is secretary of homeland security. Ever since Chertoff's agency brought us the stunning news that there are more terrorist targets in Indiana than in New York or Washington, I've realized this guy could find a terrorist plot anywhere. Watch out for the Amish -- they'll run right over you with those buggies, and they all have pitchforks, too. I hear they're connected to al-Qaida through Saddam Hussein."

I love this woman.

Miscellanea

I don't get enough chances to do this anymore. Work's keeping me busy. So's having a boyfriend to please. We should all have my troubles, I guess.

It's been a pretty crazy weekend, all in all, but not necessarily in a bad way.

My new roommate and I got cable TV and internet over the weekend. Actually, in the interest of full disclosure, my roommate sat around waiting for the (tardy) cable man, and I hung around with Fozzie all weekend long.

It occurs to me that I should have a Secret Blog Name for my roommate... hmmm. For now we'll go with Betty Boop.

Don't blame me. Blame the Wu Name Generator at recordstore.com.

Anyway, while Touchy-Feely was stuck waiting for the cable man (at whom, by the way, we shake our fists), Fozzie and I made for the Prospect Park Zoo, where I went wild on what few animals were there. For it's size, I must admit, it's a pretty cool zoo. We particularly liked the sea lions. And I have to go back at some point to try to get decent photos of the red pandas, who are the cutest racoon-looking-bear-like creatures I've ever laid eyes upon. How did I not know about red pandas before?

I'm stupide, yo.

In any case, I had a great time. I think Fozzie enjoyed it. He seemed to, but when he's done with something, he's pretty clear about it, and he was done with the zoo experience when we were at the end of the "Discovery Trail" experience. I don't blame him. The other zoo patrons were working my last nerve. Especially the especially loud twelve year-old who was completely unable to correctly identify any of the animals he was looking at. At the top of his lungs. Even when he was standing next to the descriptive sign.

"Look, Papi! It's a peacock!!!"

Actually, kid, according to the sign you've just drapped yourself over, it's a crane.


"Look, Papi! It's a gopher!!!"

Uh, wrong again, Charles Darwin. It's an otter. And stop pressing your stupid nose against the glass. You're supposed to stay behind the rope.

And on and on.

Still, I enjoyed it.

After the Zoo, Fozz and I went for a glass of wine at Font of Dionysus, where he got to meet The Cajun. It was good to have two important men in my life meet each other. Now I don't have to sneak around with the one who's not my lover.

(Kidding, Fozz.)

Speaking of Important Men in my life, Topher is still off on his residency in The Heartland ("Equality before the Law," baby). Thankfully, he's been keeping me (and, I suspect, others of his friends -- the man is well-skilled at the use of the bcc, and I bless him for it) up to date with a series of "dispatches" detailing what's going on while he's there. It sounds like a pretty remarkable experience. I can't wait 'til he gets back and tells us all about it.

I love this: In order to fit in and not look like a total effete eastern snob (he's a delightful eastern snob, but not so effete, really), he's purchased some new boots and shed his customary nice shirt and spiffy sport coat routine. I think it's working. Those are the shoes to the right.

Love 'em.

Okay, so now that we have cable (and, god help me, DVR), I'm unlikely to get very much sleep. We signed up for all the HBO and Starz/Encore Channels, so I can get my fill of all my faves.

I have, I'm afraid, become completely addicted to Entourage, which I got hooked on last year in Pittsburgh. Luckily for me, I was able to watch the entire second season while I was subletting at Doug's place, and I've been able to watch all the current Season 3 episodes thanks to connections at The Velvet Prison™. It'll be nice not to have to worry about depending on someone else to watch it.

I've also, thanks to a certain person I'm never going to forgive, I'm now enslaved by Deadwood. He got me hooked on the first season after borrowing the never-opened copy I'd gotten at The Velvet Prison™, and I watched the second season on Netflix. Now I have to figure out how to catch up on the beginning of the third (and, god help me, final) season. The one thing we didn't order on the cable was HBO on demand.

Crap!

Anywho.

Unaccountably, my favorite character on Deadwood has turned out to be Ellsworth, the prospector/mine manager who married Alma Garrett at the end of the second season. I love his sass, and Jim Beaver, the actor who plays him, is delightful to watch as he plays this rough guy doing his best at smoothing out the edges while trying to do what he thinks is the right thing. For me, he's a standout in an amazing cast. Everyone else gets all the attention, but I think he's great. Maybe it's 'cuz I'm destined to spend my life as a character actor that I notice the good ones.

Well, that's it for me for now, sports fans. If you're looking for me, don't hesitate to check for the zombie in front of my TV.

Why Children Are J'Adore-able

My god-daughter Abigail, whom I've not seen in way too long, has shown once again why, someday, I must have children of my own. This, pulled from an email sent by her dad, Michael:

Abigail sang, "someone's in the kitchen with Dinah/ someone's in the kitchen I know/ someone's in the kitchen with Dinah/ strumming on the open Joe."

"I told you it was about Uncle Joe."

Boobery

Someone was giving me grief the other day for the paucity of blog entries over the last couple of months. I have, of course, only one reply to that: Dead laptop.

Gone, dear friends, are the days when I could spend the evening recording my useless thoughts for your mass consumption, or idly surfing the source of porn internet for interesting things that might inspire me to brilliance.

I do understand the nostalgia for my more prolific days. Though I do wonder about the quality of what I was writing when I was gushing and my Flying Fingers of Doom™ danced across the keyboard non-stop. I think I mostly complained a lot, but I do miss those days.

In any case, I spend a lot of my time now taking pictures, rather than tapping out entries. It's both a good and a bad thing.

Did I tell you, though, that I've managed to break my camera?

Yeah. I'm a genius.

I'd been getting a lot of smudges on my photos, owing, I thought, to some sort of dust on the sensor that captures the picture. So I foolishly decided I'd try to wipe it off. I did the sensor okay -- I used one of those cans of compressed air -- but then I noted that there seemed to be a lot of crap on the viewfinder too, so I tried to clean off the mirror that reflects the images up to the viewfinder, and the glass shield between that mirror and the rest of the world.

Broke 'em. Broke 'em good.

The upshot of all this is that, while my camera still takes pictures, the auto-focus is broken, and doesn't work. I'm learning to focus manually. That eliminates a lot of the, er, "action" shots I'm so fond of taking, and practically eliminates any chance of ever seeing a non-blurred picture taken in low light. Still, I suppose it could be worse.

So now I've got to find the money to have both my laptop and my camera repaired.

It's going to be a very, very long time.

Optical Delusion

By way of Manhattan User's Guide, this might just be the coolest thing I've ever seen in my life. And freaky. Just goes to show you that the things we count on to prove our reality -- sight, sound, smells -- aren't always necessarily what we think.

This, of course, comes right on the heels of my latest read, Alan Watts' collected early writings, Become What You Are. It sounds like a self-help book, but it's actually a collection of his early writings about Eastern thought, much of it on the nature of Reality.

Intriguing, interesting stuff.

Grrrrrr!

Dammit!!! Why don't I find out about these things sooner?!?

I'm a "C" Student

I cringe to admit that, though I would pass the 8th grade today, it'd only be barely. In my defense, I didn't study algebra until I was in the 9th grade, and I think continental drift theory has advanced in the twenty-eight (gulp!) years since I left the 8th grade.

The $4400

Either my new bed is really comfortable, or it's really uncomfortable, because I've been remembering my dreams the last few nights, which is really unusual.

Three nights ago, I had the most amazing flying dream. I was in a production of Guys & Dolls directed by George C. Wolfe in this huge old movie palace-like theater. An aerial production.

I can't, of course, remember who I was playing, but I do know that all the actors were strapped into flying gear a la Cathy Rigby in Peter Pan, and we were flinging ourselves all over the theater. Not just the stage, but up to the second and third balconies. Without an ounce of fear. It was glorious. I hated waking up.

Two nights ago, I found myself in the middle of a modern-day version of a 1930s gangster flick. I was chasing/being chased by a bunch of inept gangsters. I learned one important thing: I'm not so good with driving a Model T truck. Many wide turns ending up driving on sidewalks, with pedestrians scrambling akimbo. Model T trucks don't have power steering, even in my dreams.

Last night -- yes, I've remembered dreams three nights in a row -- I finally got around (in my dreams!) to taking my dad's watch to have a new wrist band and face crystal installed. I went to a not-particularly-fancy watch repair place, and the guy wanted $4400 to do the repairs.

What's that about, I wonder? At first I thought maybe I was thinking about the TV show, but I haven't had cable for several months, and I haven't seen that show for over six months, I think. So that couldn't be it.

Anyone have any idea what 4400 might mean, numerology-wise? I'm curious.

I was back at the Font of Dionysus last night, and The Cajun was working, slinging drinks for the masses. It's really quite pleasant to sit at a bar and -- knowing that you're not exactly falling over yourself with cash -- nurse one glass of really nice wine for a while. I've been an object lesson in savoring a good glass of wine... one sip at a time.

Uncharacteristically, I've been indulging in white wines, too. I figure since it's summer (and the damn temperature outside is hovering near 100°), I should go for something light and crisp.

I'll look forward to the return of the milder weather... and the heavier reds.

Just as a side note: I wonder if the fact that I'm sleeping so well has something to do with the fact that I'm mildly sedated by the one glass of wine I've been nursing. That would explain Tuesday and Wednesday nights, but not Monday.

I just love a mystery.

Welcome Home

One of the nice things about returning to The Elysian Fields is that I can loiter at the Font of Dionysus, and renew old acquaintances.

I did just such last night, pausing for a crisp glass of white wine and chatting briefly with The Chicago Moll, a friend of the The Cajun.

Anyway, The Moll is effortlessly friendly, much like everyone at the Font. That's part of the reason I love the joint so. Nice folk. Good wine. An oasis in the 100° heat.

What more could one ask for?

One of the things that have been foremost on my mind lately is that I think I've lost a lot of the joie de vivre associated with my youth. The past few years have left me feeling a little like I've been beaten roundly about the head and heart by a meat tenderizer, so occasionally I need a little outside stimulation to remind me what's important, and what I should be focusing on.

To wit, my latest photographic obsession: Kids playing in fountains... and other things of beauty.

Lordy

Welcome to Hell's Frying Pan™:

Can't We All Just Play a Game?

This absolutely fascinates me. There was an article about about it in The New York Times a couple weeks ago. I'd link you to it, but it's part of the Times annoying "TimesSelect" service where you have to be a subscriber to actually read the article.

Curse you, you effete right-coast rag!