Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.
So I watched all 18 SATC episodes. Yes, my dear, eighteen. And that was not enough to fill the weekend [and for me to escape bein’ kinda lonely] so it was back to Hollywood Video to move onto a new series. I’ve already seen all the Sopranos that they have, so next up is the entire second season of Queer as Folk, which contains the irrepressible Hal Sparks, my new favoritest actor ever [move over, Viggo Mortensen!!]. I’ve made it throught eight episodes, but I think I actually need a break from boys kissing.
But since my only other option is the svelte, slender, slim Gwyneth Goddamn Paltrow [Sliding Doors] in all her seven-foot blonde glory … ah, I think it’s back to QAF. Only 21 hours to kill until I go to work.
Tears for Fears
Tears for Fears
OK, so I cheated. Some thoughts while while watching the forbidden Sex and The City Season Four eps [no-TV rule does not apply to HBO rentable shows, I have decided].
Woman, thy name is Sappiness: OK, full apologies for the bloated and verbiose defense of tears that was in this space before. Christ.
Writer’s Remorse attacks again, and I had to take that sentimental crap down. No one gives a shit about crying! Come on! Boo hoo!
Let me down hard.
Let me down hard.
So WTMD’s pledge drive is getting a little old. It’s the only radio station I listen to, and I love their little non-commercial hearts, but if I hear any moreWorld Cafe or the words “We need your support” one more time …
Dreams really do come true: 210west.com is coming along rather nicely. Site’s been redesigned, and there’s a ton of articles, including one by yours truly. Sometimes the penis party gets me down, but mostly it’s been fun.
Dinner and drinks: Iain’s coworker came over today for the steak dinner. It was pretty cool, though I put myself into a frenzy cleaning house today before he arrived. He showed up with a bouquet of irises and good stories, which were appreciated. He’s a pretty cool guy. Retiring, and about to get on with his life.
Just Call Me Crazy Hormone Lady: Oy, this is ridiculous. I’m looking back to about a week or two ago, when I was mired in the depths and dredges of an unholy depression. Somewhere along the way I returned to Normal Land [where I currently reside] and I’m hoping the visa doesn’t run out anytime soon. I enjoy not bawling my eyes out every ten seconds. Oh, speaking of, I’m in the mood for some tearjerkers for the movie marathon I may be hosting for myself this Saturday. [Iain takes off for the wild that afternoon, and I’m struggling for ways to fill the days. The first day gone is always the worst.]
So any recommendations are welcome. As are must-sees for non-tearjerking chick flicks, as well.
“Sue,” for short: So I’m changing my mind. Any future children I may bear will no longer be named after war correspondents [sorry, Wolf Blitzer] but rather after the creative types behind all the spam I receive: Hestia Gornagoviak, Suda Maynaman, Norsen Petervanson. … I don’t know who’s making these names up, but you gotta love them.
Easy Cheese
Easy Cheese, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Listening to The Police and contemplating impending solitude. The old man’s headed off to camping this weekend, and I’m wondering how I’m going to fill the time for three or four weeks without sobbing into my Mountain Dew.
This will be a good test of my strength. And willingness to drive hours to have a beer with somebody.
And as I may have mentioned, I’ve got the Chicago visit to look forward too, so that’s heartening.
Talked to an old, blonde friend today … I realize how much I’ve let some people off my rotation, and how that sucks, cause some of these people are too cool to fade out. [“Sub-question: Is it better to burn out than to fade away?”] I’m gonna quit doing that. Though some of the faded cool people are ex-boyfriends, and that friendship door is pretty well closed, for a variety of reasons.
Hostess with the mostest: Having one of Iain’s coworkers over for dinner tomorrow — steak and potatoes, a classic. This guy is evidently as uber-cool as they get at retirement age: enjoys painting, photography, the outdoors, music — he’s basically Iain in 35 years. I’m a little apprehensive, because I’ve never met this one before, and I’ve got to clean the house and … you know, kind of figure out how to be. I hate meeting new people. I detest it. I get all quiet and polite and fake, and I can’t help it. And it’s even weirder, because I’m meeting this landed gentleman at my humble, squalid apartment, furnished entirely in giveaways and Wal-Mart furniture. I know it’s the books on the tables and the pictures on the walls more than it is how stylishly decorated the pad is, but I still don’t want him thinking I’m slovenly and cheap … ugh.
Anyway. Enough fretting. I get a steak dinner and guaranteed good conversation, so I’ll shut it now.
HOLY WEBMAG, BATMAN!
HOLY WEBMAG, BATMAN!
We did it! 210 west is live, kicking ass and dutifully taking names in its reporter’s notebook.
Check it out: www.210west.com.
I am amazed.
Insert “Glass” wordplay here.
Insert “Glass” wordplay here.
Just finished Stephen Glass’s “The Fabulist.” Fascinating. Grossly, alarmingly fascinating. Repugnant. Fairly well-written, but peppered with hackneyed phrases and cliches. Intriguing, nonetheless, definitely with a few keepers. I laughed, but I didn’t cry.
The “protagonist” reminded me very much of a reporter I used to work with. This reporter would never, to my knowledge, make shit up, thank Bernstein. But it was eerie, all the same.
Perchance to dream: Having serious issues with my circadian rhythm. It’s 4 a.m., and I’m not even dozey, even though I must awaken in 5 hours. Sensing a problem.
Reboot: Jack level steadily increasing from storm-cloud black to a more enthusiastic and eager saffron. Movable Type is slowly but surely revealing its secrets to me. OK, the MT support forums are revealing the secrets. But I’m confident my Mac-charm will allow me to canoodle this little site into giving me what I want. Just gotta finesse it a little.
How ‘bout dem Birds: Anticipating a foray to the Steel City this weekend for a bit of Pittsburghese and dinner with Iain’s old crowd. Ooh, and a chance to get wifely and bake dessert for the Big Department Dinner on Friday. [By bake, I mean throw some chocolate and pound of butter together with some ice cream and cookies until it comes out as “Busterbar.”]
The shadows are lifting, slowly but steadily, and once more there’s a light at the end of the [Fort McHenry] tunnel.
Shove it.
Shove it.
Movable Type is pissing me off. I don’t understand it. Gah. So the webmag may be in trouble if I don’t sort this shit out.
Click. So the black cloud lifted sometime yesterday. I’m still not ecstatic or anything, but I’m feeling slightly happier and less inclined to off myself or someone else. Which, I suppose, is a good thing. Hormones, you think?
Pie in the Sky. So we went to an art opening in Fells Point Saturday night. A good time was had by most. The art was OK. Not terrific, but definitely OK. Typical artsy-fartsy ambience, everyone with choppy hair and tiny glasses of sangria, paying more attention to each than the art. But what the fuck. We went with Carole and her brother Patrick, who made us listen to Abba Gold on the drive. Beers with them and Amy and Neil, who are infinitely rad, at the Wharf Rat. The party later moved on to frat-baby Maxwell’s.
The interesting thing about the evening was that I was out of brassieres [they were all drip-drying in the shower] so I went without. If I had a bit more in the bust department, I don’t think I would have been so self-conscious, but as it was I felt all disproportionate and … poky. However, as time wore on, the liquor took my mind off the bosom issue, and I just let go. Of … whatever.
I’m sure you’re all better people for knowing this tidbit.
RIAA be damned. So the CD burner is working out nicely. I’m suddenly missing Napster like a mother, but luckily Iain and I have a fairly solid collection going, and the remixing is making up for the lack of new stuff. After I made the mix for Jen, I just got carried away and made a new disc for myself. I won’t tell you who’s on it, cause one of all y’all music snobs will bust my chops for it. Suffice to say that Iain liked it, and dubbed his own two-CD set, a superfine collection of sad and pensive songs. To which I am listening right now, by the way.
All right. 4 p.m. has been coming earlier and earlier lately, and I’ve got shit to do before work, so it’s off to bed I trundle.
Keep the peace.
Too depressed to live.
Too depressed to live. Where is everybody? I’ve drunk three beers already this evening, at various locations around the greater metropolitan area. Time for the Chianti in the fridge. Met a toothless man today. He said: “I love America. Where else can you see an old Irish Mick [points to himself] sing along to a guinea [gestures to the Dean Martin emanating from the PA] in front of a Jewish deli” [swings his arms wide to indicate the deli behind him].
I just don’t know where else you can see that.
I also met a man named Denny whilst drinking a beer and wolfing down a grilled cheese at the Charles Village Pub. Denny was a toxic bachelor, and slightly scary. Had a semi-fulfilling conversation about rain.
Read an e-mail from an acquaintance from France, which just may be the highlight of the day.
The world is narrowing, my friends, narrowing. Smaller and smaller, and samer and samer. Curiouser and curiouser, you might even say. You might also, were you in the mood, call me a bit inebriated and alone this Friday evening.
Then again, you might not.
But probably, you would.
Spontaneously combust all unicorn …
Spontaneously combust all unicorn, ye who enter here.
Some lyrics as I ponder the meaning of Life, The Universe, and Everything [and make a mix-tape for Jen]:
“You can’t have light without a dark to stick it in.”
“They say we’re in a state of emergency. How come no one is panicking?”
“I don’t have as many friends because I’m not as pretty as I was.”
“Take this. This medicine is just what you deserve.”
“Everyone knows it sucks to grow up.”
“I’m not beautiful like you. I’m beautiful like me.”
“I asked him time again: Take me in, dry the rain.”
“Now and again, it seems worse than it is. But mostly, the view is accurate.”
… Sometimes, you need someone to pull your head above water and point the way to shore, whether or not you want to swim there. I guess it’s up to me to start kicking my legs.
Note to self: Neither Michael Moore nor Stephen King are effective mood-boosters.
Here’s to hoping: That everyone else is doin’ well, and enjoying all this goddamn rain.
I annoy myself.
I annoy myself.
The fact that I miss college right now, and can’t sleep, and have a head full of nonsense is making me feel kind of stupid.
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