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Wednesday, June 29, 2005

with his hands in his pockets he could not lie 

So, today I am realizing I'm kinda over the whole responsible-adult-supervising-the-kids thing. If Paris Hilton is quitting the party scene soon, there's a job opening, right?

Won't somebody come and take me to a party?

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

b-a-n-a-n-a-s 

Oh! And I have my own knitalong! (Understand "my own" to mean that I didn't start it, am not currently participating in it, and have no connection with the KAL website.)

It's for my Pom Squad socks, and I am just over the moon that there is more than one person (me!) interested in knitting the pattern, much less several to necessitate the alonging with the knitting. Yay! I will be joining the knitalong anon, in fact had already planned to make an exceedingly pink pair, before, you know, the popularity got to my head.

this shit is bananas 

Gwen Stefani, I'm so sorry. I hated you all those years, and now I find I was wrong. Wrong! The rest of No Doubt really was holding you back, and we all assumed it was your ego causing problems, but we see our folly now. To be fair, not all of my antipathy was based on your work. In high school, when No Doubt broke out, I was totally on board with "Spiderwebs," but your cause was championed by our local "Mean Girl," a skinny bitch who looked like Calista without the cute, insinuated everyone else was anorexic, and turned up her nose at "sellouts," defined as previously cool bands who made the cool-ending mistake of making an actual name for themselves. Plus the Gwen/Gwyn connection, in conjunction with your quirky, not-just-a-pretty-face "style,"--well, forgive me for thinking you were perhaps not all you were cracked up to be.

Again, I apologize, Gwen. Really, you were so cute back in the day, with your blond ponytail and kickass biceps, a golden Cali punk-Gidget from hell. "Hollaback Girl" is the pleasingly ubiquitous single from your new solo album, and we were wondering if you'd like to hang out sometime. Seriously, my kids love this song, and they have pretty good taste in music. (My kids are unanimous in declaring "American Girls," a practically lost track brought to you by the abortive supergroup Homie, composed of Rivers Cuomo and some of his buds from Cake and Soul Coughing, the best. song. ever.) We have all been walking around chanting B-A-N-A-N-A-S for days now. I love the cheerleading angle, because I often surprise people with the simple fact of not having been a cheerleader. I'm totally down withthe whole Rockygirl thing, too--our assignations underneath bleachers usually involved making out and smoking instead of beating people down, but we've been in that situation, too. "What You Waiting For" is not bubblegum, exactly, more like slightly alien chewy gummy Japanese candy, but we love pop music, honey, and we think this is your Madonna, finger-on-the-nation's-pulse album. It requires no imagination at all to imagine all you forty-year-olds back in the day, out at the club with your torn tulle, shaking your bangles to this song. Gwen, girl, I got your back so hard.

I was telling pman the other day that the common denominator between Gwen and Mariah's new albums was that critics were surprised by how much more they could have sucked. I laughed. I'm so ashamed now. I've downloaded Mariah's new single, "We Belong Together," for inclusion on my summer-shake-your-thang CD, and damn! Girlfriend doesn't suck hardly at all now! I feel like John Cusack in High Fidelity--it's really fucking good. Well, Mimi, I officially forgive you for not being able to find an entire shirt in all of New York. It's okay--I'm slutty and unstable with bad taste in men, too. Wanna go shopping?

Other songs on the disc:
Beverly Hills (Weezer)
Don't Phunk With My Heart (Black-Eyed Peas, a band I bet really wishes it could go back in time)
La Tortura (Shakira)
In Da Club (Beyonce & 50Cent)
Hush (LL Cool J)
Superstar (Lauryn Hill)
Shave (Enon)
The Way You Move (Outkast)

I'm not much of a hip-hop person, generally, because the whole male-dominated pimps up/hos down thing doesn't engage me. I am, however, totally willing to embrace the independent woman/can't hold us down neosoulfeminism thing, because it's awesome and fictional at the same time. (PS--Beyonce, honey, that house you live in? I bought it. Me and millions of other girls.) It's no surprise that rap music doesn't hold a lot of solid guys--can we really blame these ladies for at least claiming to be independent?

Clearly, I'm chasing the whole DNote-excruciatingly-earnest live music months with sweet delicious pop music. After dealing with people whose years in San Francisco and Berkeley have rendered them incapable of distinguishing art from self-expression, polished feminist anthems that make me shake my ass all night, up in the club--just what the doctor ordered. (Actually, that's true. My therapist ordered me to have more fun. Swear.)

Monday, June 27, 2005

forget those movies you saw, little baby 

Can we truly consider ourselves liberated when we hear, "Oh, honey, it's Christmas/Mother's Day/your birthday, don't worry about cleaning that up..." and instead of the sentence ending, "...I'll do it," the implied ending is this:

"...you can do that tomorrow."

Sunday, June 26, 2005

why don't you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut 

I think I'm in love.

We laughed, we cried, our spirits were lifted. If this guy were truly to exist, I would be so seriously hot for teacher. I'm going through a bit of a juvenile phase--anyone up for planting cherry bombs and hopping the pool fence for skinnydipping? Perhaps a little light civil disobedience after supper?

i told you i loved you now what more can i do 

I suspect that my vacation snapshots are taking up too much room and that's why all previous posts are booted down to Siberia.

I forgot to tell you--if you're bored and run out of reading material here, a softer world is my all-time favorite comic, tragic and funny and random, kind of like getting your heart broken by somebody you like too much to be mad at. Read all the archives and see if you laugh until you cry.

If you don't, it's alright, but you probably will never be an okay human being.

once you're broken, shape won't matter 

Yeesh. I should be wearing one of those T-shirts that says "Next Mood Swing...6 Minutes" except naturally I wouldn't be caught dead in anything that trite. More like "You Will Never Even See It Coming..."

So I was going to add a "Confidential to..." like I sometimes do, and then I realized that my whole post was a confidential to this person, and then I thought that it wouldn't matter because said person is probably not reading this anyway, but that person could be reading this drivel, and then wouldn't speak to me, but it's not like that person is speaking to me in any meaningful sense anyway...

I'm so full of bullshit. Perhaps one day I'll get all my shit together, and then what will you read on a dull, hung-over Sunday?

It's true, though, what they say--behind every beautiful woman is a man who's bored to death with her. I fear I have lost the faith.

Would someone please break my wrists so I can't type anymore?

maybe I'm too young to keep good love from going wrong 

Blah blah blah. I need a new job. I quit my last one before my vacation, so if anyone you know needs a cocktail waitress, smartass loudmouth or spiritual advisor, look no further.

I haven't been knitting so much, but I expect that will change. I'm grounded. I'm feeling perhaps more than my share of existential angst today, along with a large side of self-doubt. This was meant to be a knitting blog and instead has become a barometer of my state of mind. Poor you. Well, I'm really more of a deeply committed performance artist than an actual person, so it's handy for people who want to catch my act from far away.

Contemplating running away to Europe and inventing a new persona for myself at every beach I visit. Anyone down?

I've read that most writers have an Ideal Reader, the person for whom they really write. I don't. I don't imagine how anyone I know or have known will react when they read what I write. Maybe I just haven't met that person yet, but I'm not a real writer, so maybe there is no such person for me. Don't forget--I'm Moderately Treacherous (this will be my band's name if I ever learn the drums.)

But every once in a while, I feel someone's gaze upon me, and I can't help but squirm under the scrutiny.

That's why I nevernevernever tell people I have a blog.

Does there ever come a point in one's life when you are finally so connected to your loved ones that you never feel lonely again? Or do you just accept that there will always be a distance between us? The difference between optimist and pessimist is a daily coin toss for me. Today it feels like I'm traveling alone in the dark, with only brief connections with other people to light me up.

Ha. wooliemama--where deep and shallow meet and have a loud, public argument.
What else would you expect from Miss Depth Takes A Holiday 2005? Boy, I'm down today. I've got a case of the mean reds that would have had Holly in the bottom of a champagne bottle. Speaking of which, I adore the story, I adore Audrey, but I never really bought her as Holly Golightly. Seems there should be an edge there, a stripe of marble in her heart, a hardness from barely making one's way all these years, a note of cynicism, for Pete's sake, and Audrey Hepburn never really had that. Next to Annette Funicello, Audrey seemed one of the least cynical people ever. Is that the joke? Did I miss the point? How does a woman go from stealing eggs from henhouses to "working" and still retain breathless optimism and dewy-eyed faith in the world?

Bullshit. Wishful-thinking, macho bullshit. At least the movie version, anyway. Men don't want you to really be vulnerable, they just want you to act vulnerable, but only when their egos need fluffing. God forbid you need actual help, because then, you know, you're just bloodsucking.

Jesus god, how do people ever really communicate?

Quick, somebody, email me and tell me how you walked into the ladies' at the Ivy and caught Paris going down on Larry King, or something. Bathing in this much self-pity is simply not good for my skin, and I need to keep up appearances.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

this time when kindness falls like rain 

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The bitch is back in town, and boy, is she tan. I highly recommend renting a convertible for maximum vacation hotness. Sorry about all those earthquakes--we were listening to Ted Leo and the Pharmacists really loud.
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Our friend (and Alice's godfather) Ben, of benjackel.com fame. He graduated last weekend from grad school at UCLA, and now he's a Master of the Universe. Oops, I meant ceramics. Unfortunately, I have no photos of his lovely bride-to-be, named--wait for it--Alice. (But she pronounces it Elise.)
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Seth, fellow recovering Latin geek and holder of the crown for Most Free Champagne Consumed In One Day. Cute, ain't he?
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What can I say? The ocean is my home. I miss it every day in Colorado.
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Our friend Joe, who gamely escorted us around LA and made sure everyone who was on vacation got to drink themselves silly. I will love him forever for taking us to Canter's deli, where Marilyn Monroe supposedly had her own table, and letting me eat my skinny ass off. Anyplace you can get a hot pastrami sandwich brought to you 24/7 is, well, who am I kidding? It's heaven.
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I think he just called me a beachslut.

So, we all had a great time. Well, I personally had a kickass time,anyway, such a good time in fact that I caused us to miss our flight, and wouldn't you love to hear that story? (Yes, you would, it's a really great story, but no, you won't hear it, because it's none of your business.)There's a lot of stories to tell, actually, like when I got mouthy with the bouncers at the Roxy and got us in free, not getting capped on the 405, and me ending up in some bachelor's party video (perfectly decent, or as decent as I get, anyway)plus all the pictures we can't show you.

I know it's a shock, but please try to accept it: I'm a party girl at heart. All these kids are just a front.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

queen of california 

Salutations from L.A. stop living the high life stop I drink tequila every day and my tan lines could put your eye out stop having a great time making out with the ocean and sleeping till noon stop if I'm kidnapped by the jet set, don't look for me stop kisses from Your Foreign Correspondant