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| 2:38 p.m. Sunday, November 18, 2001 lists are addictive yes, they are. and i finally gave in and submitted to one that i've had my eye on for a while. herewith, my entry for girlboy. yes, it is in fact the virtual equivalent of a personal ad. i still felt like doing it. 5:29 p.m. Friday, November 16, 2001 Friday Five Friday Five, courtesy of smattering. 1. Name five things in your refrigerator: orange juice, miso paste, half a dozen chocolate bars, pickled ginger, eggs. 2. Name five things in your freezer: adzuki bean ice cream, ground hamburg, pearl onions in a cream sauce, hash browns, spinach. 3. Name five things under your kitchen sink: tool box, Zippo fluid, dish detergent, window cleaner, furniture polish. 4. Name five things around your computer: banker's lamp, my grandfather's name plate, Grib the gargoyle, two paperweights, ashtray. 5. How do you plan to spend your weekend? seeing the Harry Potter film, working a Dispatch show, taking a driving lesson, seeing Chris Trapper perform, paying my bills and cleaning out the litter box. maybe vacuuming. definitely sleeping. 4:29 p.m. Wednesday, November 14, 2001 what more? the ever wonderful Sars has a piece up about the latest 'events' in New York. they don't feel much like events, do they? event implies fun. You have a plan, let us in on it. If You don't, then for fuck's sake get a hobby. Pick on Jupiter for a change. We've had it down here. 12:20 a.m. Tuesday, November 13, 2001 Mouthy McBiterson and Play Doh i can't remember where i picked up this habit. could be any number of friends. if you want to refer to someone with a quirk or marked trait, it's Joe McJoe (substituting, of course, the appropriate terms for Joe). i was working just before Halloween at a show, and people came in with all sorts of ... well, let's be generous and call them costumes and not fashion faux pas. one rather tall woman came in with a pink petalled headband. when she sat down, i pointed her out to the other usher and said, 'well, someone is going to be cranky sitting behind Daisy McShasta.' i'd also gotten stuck on the train on the way in to that show. the guy to my right started ranting, not quite under his breath, about how it was all a conspiracy to fuck up his life. 'yeah, right', i muttered to myself, avoiding eye contact with Cranky McNutter. 'like we all aren't inconvenienced by this.' while i was trying to avoid eye contact with him (which would have made me the prime target of his discontent), i noticed a familiar aroma. took me a few minutes to place it. but i had all the time going because we were 'behind an out of service train'. then it hit me. Cranky McNutter smelled like Play Doh! i can't describe the smell, but if you ever had Play Doh growing up in the 70s, you know exactly what i mean. imagine my dismay when i recounted this story to a few friends and found out that modern Play Doh (why would you upgrade it?) has no scent. imagine. entire generations of kids deprived of that familiar, comforting smell. i wonder if they've descented Silly Putty too? 12:14 a.m. Tuesday, November 13, 2001 you learn something every day. you know, i never really questioned the phrase 'suicide blonde'. i just thought Darcy Stenke made it up as a cool name for her book. come to find out, it's been around a lot longer than that. and it came about because it's a shorthand for 'dyed by her own hand'. who knew? the funniest part, to me, is that my ex-boyfriend rold me this when explaining that he was not, in fact, suicide blonde, but had paid good money to look like that. 12:04 a.m. Tuesday, November 13, 2001 Palmer method i got to thinking about Dean's essay on the evolution of writing the other day, specifically the Carolingian hand. don't ask why Carolingian over half Uncial. back to the segue - i was sitting at the bar and watched a woman sign her check, and knew that she was French. she hadn't said anything, but you could tell from her handwriting that was the case. fascinating to me that a national hand can be so distinctive, even when using the same alphabet as we do. 11:57 p.m. Monday, November 12, 2001 more than a writer in the intro to The Best Spiritual Writing 2001, Philip Zaleski talks about Merton's charge that the writer has a greater journey. Doesn't the poor wordsmith have enough to do, toiling all day in the fields of language, trimming a verb here, planting a pronoun there, praying all the while that he will produce a worthy harvest? And now he must be a holy man as well? Let's not flinch at the truth: Isn't the typical writer a heavy drinking, chain-smoking, promiscuous rebel? Isn't his proper habitat the garret (or the barstool) rather than the cloister? perhaps that struck just a little too close to home for comfort, but it made me nod violently in agreement. but Merton's challenge still stands, and i hope i can begin to meet it someday. 11:52 p.m. Monday, November 12, 2001 true to one's self i just finished reading The Fencing Master, by Arturo Perez-Reverte, who is a wonderful writer. he writes such textured stories. Don Jaime looked shyly down at his shoes; his expression was that of a boy who had just confessed to some misdemeanor. 'If you do, I am truly sorry,' he said in a low voice. 'As for myself, I would just say that, because of what I am, I can at least look myself in the face when I stand before the mirror each morning to shave. And that, madam, is more than many men I know can do.' |
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