January 31, 2003
announcing: february internet-crush again
announcing: february internet-crush
again in cahoots with the singular sarah b., i'd like to present to you the object of my internet affections this month:
greg.
reasons greg is my february internet crush: greg is funny. greg is witty. greg is erudite. greg's blog is named geese aplenty which is both funny and completely nonsensical, which makes life perfect in my book. greg tells funny stories about las vegas, and celebrities, and makes appropriate jokes about germans.
greg has a charming, snarky little man at the top of his blog, and even though greg looks more like harrison ford, i will always associate him with snarky header man.
greg, apparently, has a supah-smoove sexy radio voice. this is known fact because greg was on the radio. greg has a barbeque grill. he has made, in the past, witty commentary on the following topics: mandy moore. why he's burning in hell (see: mandy more). car talk. strom thurmond. christmas carolling. public relations. bond vs. lord of the rings.
greg is fantastic. he makes cocktails. he says all the right things. go read greg. and do it every day.
my own manifesto my
my post two days ago, about the young soldier on the subway, definitely caused a bit of a stir - i'm glad it had an affect on people. i know how much fluff about prostitutes, elle-girls, and alchohol i smack down in these here pages, but after all, i do consider myself a writer and every now and then, i like to like the quill fly where it will.
that said. i'd like to make very clear that my personal opinion on the impending war in iraq was at no point mentioned in that post. my opinion on the validity of war in general was not mentioned. that was done on purpose. while a lot of you were just really touched, i feel like people were assuming my opinion on the matter - and you know what they say about assuming*!
so just for the record, so that i don't ever have to discuss or defend my political or socio-economic views at any later date, let me tell you some things, loud and clear, about me that aren't in the 100 things.
i am militantly pro-choice. i don't have a problem with people who are against having abortions. that is also, ironically, their personal choice i have a problem with them telling me, and everyone else in this country, that their opinion should be law. that's not pro-life. that's anti-choice.
i believe in this country, having chosen to live here over the 15 other countries i have the right to live in. that said, i hold sacred and dear my right to criticise this country at every step. because that is my constitutional right.
i believe this country has miles, miles to go before we attain any kind of equality among races, among genders, and sexual orientation. one of the reasons i want to go to law school is to fight for gay rights.
i believe that Congress's 1996 Defense of Marriage Act is one of the most blatantly unconstitutional congressional faux-pas i've ever, ever seen, because it violates congress's prescribed "regulatory" power in article IV, section 1 of the constitution - the full faith and credit clause. I will consider it an honor to see that law reversed in my lifetime, and at my hand.
i am not a communist.
and that is all you ever need to know about my politics.
normal, fluffy, witty, cosmo-swilling petit hiboux will return tomorrow.
* and the ass it makes of you and me?
January 30, 2003
if i can't do
if i can't do it, someone else should.
lookit - i can't have sex with a prostitute*. at least, not a female one**. i'm never going to know what that singular and possibly very strange experience*** is like.
so does it make me weird that i'm always encouraging my guy friends**** to go out and hire a prostitute, because i want them to tell me what it was like?
does it?
* yes, i know i could hire one and have sex with her. but i don't think i'd enjoy my first lesbian experience if it was being paid for.
** and really, in terms of tradition, the female ones are the ones that interest me. i'm interested in understanding the socially prevalent and historically significant business practice of women, long held under as the "weaker sex" by male dominance, exchanging their bodies for money. male prostitutes ... they're like monster trucks competing with hondas and winning the race.
*** nota bene to any ragingly angry people that think i'm in favor the degrading sex industry and would like to flame me for considering supporting it: shut up and get off your soapboxes.
**** i would obviously never actually coerce anyone into having sex. unless it was with ME.
chicks before dicks, yo.
here's the thing. discussing the state of blogger-dom today with my fabulous, scandalous princess of pop, the singular sarah b., we realized one very key thing:
the girls of bloggerdom rock our faces so hard.
and we said to ourselves, these girls that we chat with every day, leave comments for, share funny shoe-shopping stories with, moan over boy-travails with ... why are we not all in one place?
myself and the singular sarah b. both being women of action, decided to take some. oh yes.
ismat the smashingly engaged? dooce the splendiferous? fish, the queen of bicycles? babs, surely? ariel the electrolicious? anna the victorious? ari the magnificent? liz, the new topographically funny? tequila mockingbird? jackie-o, the wickedly witty? helenjane, the fantabulously fun?
girls - two nights. new york city. first night? we get our freak on. there will be dancing, and sexy, useless little tops, and to-die-for little shoes. there will be fruity cocktails and swooning bartenders. second night? it's a slumber party. there will be pjs, and snack foods, and tear-jerker movies, and more fruity cocktails, and pillows and more pillows.
two nights. all-girl fun.
can you dig it?
then let's do it.
revolution, baby!
January 29, 2003
one man's life in
one man's life in three phone calls
he was sitting next to me, on the subway, clutching a bundle of official looking papers and staring very, very intently at them. as if, perhaps staring would make them go away, or change into a dove or something. he was young-ish, hispanic, rather bulky, with dark eyes and pretty lips. he looked about 24. after staring at the papers for long enough to burn a hole through them, he pulled out his cell phone and made three short phone calls.
"hi, mom? hi. did i wake you up?"
"okay. i'm okay. yeah."
"well, here's the thing -"
"no, i'm fine, i just got my papers this morning."
"tomorrow. report to base. texas. and then turkey. then saudi."
"yeah, mom. it'll be fine."
"no, i haven't told her yet."
"okay, ma. i'll call you later this afternoon. got errands to run. gotta shave my head and -"
"it'll be okay."
"bye."
he put the phone away, and looked out the window for a little bit. pulling the phone out again -
"hi, honey. did i wake you?"
"yeah? how'd it go?"
"that's good. tell her i say hi."
"listen, baby, i got some bad news."
*laugh*
"no, it ain't that. we're going to have to push back the wedding."
"you know that's not - listen, okay, i want to marry you. its that i got called up."
"yeah."
"overseas."
"saudi, mainly."
"listen, don't cry, it'll be okay."
"tomorrow."
"i don't know - couple weeks? months?"
"it'll be okay."
"i love you."
visibly shaken. man doesn't put the phone away, he makes one more call.
"hey, dude."
"yeah." *laugh*
"got called up, man."
"tomorrow."
"saudi."
"no shit."
"you free after work?"
"meet me at jimmy's?"
"see you then, bro."
two stops later, man was still staring at those ominous, crisp white papers. calling him to fight. calling him to the middle east, weeks or months before this nation steps on the path towards the destruction of sadam's regime. it doesn't matter to him whether half of new york's elite sits at elaine's and debates the theoretical necessity of war. the motives. the political smoking guns.
he had to call his mother and tell her that her baby was going overseas. he had to call his girlfriend and tell her they'd have to postpone the wedding. and lastly, he called his buddy. tonight, they'll probably sit at a bar and stare at the walls and find things to say that won't break any hearts. those three phone calls - those were this man's reaction to the war.
as i got off the train, i looked at him and said, "good luck, man."
he held my eyes for a minute. he knew i'd heard, even though he'd been talking very quietly. he said, "thanks."
January 28, 2003
and we're all twelve
and we're all twelve years old.
the editrix would like to note that the only purpose for reprinting the following vile, not-fit-for-children IM conversation is to prove what a dirty, dirty man jw is*. she apologizes in advance to the damage the following garbage will have on your delicate, delicate ears.
*and also, to gross out fulminous.
jw: dorkface
zuzuca: what?
jw: nothing. just thought I'd throw a little verbal abuse your way
zuzuca: dillhole.
jw: schmegmabrain
zuzuca: ? that's not even a word.
zuzuca: fuckwit.
jw: cumbubble
zuzuca: ewwww!
zuzuca: cuntface.
zuzuca: moldy coochmuncher.
jw: sketchy rasta-mike pube
zuzuca: lubed-out assblaster.
jw: assblaster!!! lol
zuzuca: you caved.
jw: no. I commented, even praised your last comment
zuzuca: yeah, pretty nice, huh?
zuzuca: god, i feel 10 points LESS SMART NOW.
jw: not caved, you bloody, puss-bubbling vaginal fart
zuzuca: oh CHRIST, i think i'm going to vomit.
jw: so you yeild?
jw: thank you. thanks very much
zuzuca: although, as a mild criticism -
zuzuca: the bloody at the beginning of that one should have been comma-less.
zuzuca: to make it a little more effective.
a night at elaine's
last night. elaine's with cruel little man and favorite writing professor, melvin.
assorted people we met: melinda, a chirpy, smart freelance writer in her 30's. michael, her british boyfriend, works at the daily mirror in london. dave, from the times. john, a belligerently loud drunk vietnam vet. elaine herself. some westchester football coach.
things discussed: rushdie. college. cigarettes. british men. rugby vs cricket. police ride-alongs. the appeal of scottish accents. imperialism in africa. the middle east. feminism. shower curtains. war with iraq. good vs evil. fighter pilots. alcoholics. peroxide. purple wine vs yellow wine.
books. salvation. god. smoking again. books again. cab rides. sleepovers. books again.
emotions felt: so this is what it all feels like.
January 27, 2003
and the tag on
and the tag on her outfit said: Rejected From Sex in the City Wardrobe
check this. she gets into the elevator, skinny, pretty, blonde. she works at elle magazine.
and she's wearing, from head to toe: a cab driver style cap. a tight beige cardigan with big red buttons. a dime-sized-pearl necklace that hung all the way down her front with diamond chanel logos every ten pearls or so. pinstriped jeans, so tight i could see her thong line. they were cuffed mid-calf.
and get this: navy blue socks, with beige high-heeled mary janes.
and i thought to myself, unable to stop staring from pearls to shoes - surely, surely, this is a sign of the impending apocalypse?
this is your bitchy
this is your bitchy editrix speaking ...
do me an eensy weensy favor: if you've linked to my site:
1. thanks so much. ya'll all rock my face. but
2. please don't make petit hiboux one word. it's an obsessive thing. it's an aesthetic thing. it's two words - it means little owl.
....normal, sweet, fun-loving petit hiboux returning shortly.... but while i'm on this bitch kick...
note bene:
if you're going to jump out of the murky past to reappear in my life, either by email, or webpage, or instant messages ... please. don't take it personally if i don't leap for joy. it may be that you've hurt me and i'm not interested in making you feel better about yourself by offering absolution. it may just be that i didn't know you very well back then and haven't really sparked an interest to know you very well again.
you're more than welcome to visit this site. or pester me with IMs. or send hasty, unexpected emails, asking my belated forgiveness for travesties committed half-a-decade ago.
just don't expect me to invite you in and serve you tea and cookies.
January 24, 2003
two things about chicago
1. go see chicago.
2. my next mission in life is to own this sexy thing and prance around my apartment wearing nothing but stockings, a silk slip, and high heels, drinking gin, smoking cigarettes, and singing along to the phonograph.
ohhh, yesss. that's hot.
January 23, 2003
ripped from the "how
ripped from the "how to deal with women" handbook.
important fact #47635.7:
when women are PMSing*, do not do any of the following things, ever: demean their anger. tell them there's nothing wrong. be condescending. sigh exaggeratedly every time she complains about some minute little disturbance. apologize to other people for her cattiness. ignore her entirely. attempt to wheedle sex out of her. snap back. pat her on the head. explain rationally how illogical she's being.
and don't ever, ever say, "who is this madwoman and what has she done with my girlfriend/wife/mother/sister/friend?"
*yes, i am. got a problem with that, punk?
things i know with
things i know with absolute rock-solid certainty:
our president is a gibbering fool surrounded by too-smart monkey-puppets.
i could totally seduce michael stipe, given the opportunity.
vodka, wine and tequila don't mix.
if you sleep naked, you will dream naked.
ricky martin is gay. gay.
if you feed bread at a gaggle of geese, and then you run out of bread, the geese will attack.
the best mexican food in the entire known universe is at lupe's tortilla, in houston.
flowers do not blossom in a bottle of gin.
latoya and michael are the same person.
texas is bigger than france.
no matter how immune you think you are, eventually, my fuck-me eyes will knock you down.
things i will never understand, nor care to.
tax law.
why there isn't a continuation of the shuttle from grand central all the way to port authority, instead of that smelly walkway.
the appeal of emily dickinson.
imaginary numbers.
why perfectly awesome men date completely drop-dead insane women when i'm standing right there.
my mother's mood swings.
the whole state of connecticut.
what it feels like to have a penis.
chess.
most philosophers.
french people.
how color doesn't really exist.
cyber sex.
people who say they don't like to read.
everything you need to
everything you need to know about ..[john irving].. but were always afraid to ask.
there are a lot of john irving novels. i have read a lot of john irving novels. i have even read his several [!] autobiography/memoirs. and in order to make your life a simpler, more thematically organized place, i will share a secret with you: there is only one thing you need to know in order to gauge the merit of a john irving novel. and that is my personal invention, the John Irving 5-Point Rating System ®.
you might think, why would i need this device? i can select a book based on its title/cover/subject matter/sexiness of author. no, my friends. for when you go into the bookstore - that innocuous little mega-chain you frequent - and you find yourself smack dab in front of irving's cacophony of written word, you will encounter a snag in your happy, careless little plan. all the books look alike. they all have catchy titles. they all have wacky, somewhat absurd blurbs. and his face - his craggy little silver-spoon face - is the same on every, goddamned cover.
so i present you with the John Irving 5-Point Rating System ®. this system functions based on one simple principle: that in order for an irving novel to be good, it must have three of the five elements. the elements that drive an irving novel from jumbled confusion to witty, literary success are:
new hampshire
prostitutes
hotels
vienna
bears
bonus points for: characters suspiciously like irving himself, wrestling, incest
based on this system, i will provide you with a few examples of irving's vastly different and fluctuating writing samples, and their corresponding successes, according to our John Irving 5-Point Rating System ®.
the hotel new hampshire
score: 5 of 5 (making it the penultimate john irving novel.)
briefly: wacky family owns hotel in new hampshire, decide to move to vienna to own other hotel, end up sharing hotel with prostitutes and a sarah lawrence lesbian who dresses like a bear.
extra bonus: really hot incest scene.
world according to garp
score: 3 of 5
briefly: another irving success, about a nurse in new hampshire who bears a son named Technical Sargeant Garp. they move to vienna. it's wacky. i think there are prostitutes.
extra bonus: garp is a writer. from new hampshire. duh.
setting free the bears
score: 4 of 5
briefly: kind of winding, but interesting. it's about vienna AND bears, and there are also prostitutes and hotels, and some bombs, and some references to nazi germany. it's very interesting ... if a little long.
bonus: a motorcycle, a character named siegfried and animal sex.
widow for one year
score: 1 of 5. okay, maybe there's a scene at a hotel. but it's not a wacky hotel.
briefly: this one is just ... well, it's irving trying to channel updike, i think. it doesn't work. the characters aren't idiocyncratic enough to be fun and still touching, and there's too much realism.
bonus points: the squash games are kind of cool.
prayer for owen meany
score: 1 of 5.
briefly: surprisingly, this one only takes place in NH, and it doesn't have really, anything else going for it. this is where the system broke down - because it's a good book. instead of bears and prostitutes, vienna and hotels - there's baseball, iconic red dresses, missing fathers, missing baseballs, granite mines, and an armless statue of mary magdalene. this is a good book.
bonus points: john wheelwright is definitely john irving.
cider house rules
score: who cares this book blows.
briefly: the only good thing about this book is the girl sucking off the horse.
see? my system works.
January 22, 2003
memo to: new york
to: new york city and god
from: krissa
re: fuck you, you fucking fuck, and your little fucking cloud minions as well.
new york city, you absolutely suck. you are a sadistic little dillhole. you have the brass balls to call yourself a city? this isn't a city, this is hell frozen over. it's cold, new york city. and you can't tell, because you're a bunch of buildings, and concrete, and steel. you have no feelings. you're ice.
i know sometimes i didn't appreciate you. sometimes, instead of romping in your parks and visiting your museums, i stayed at home, in beatifully balmy sixty-degree weather. i know. i'm guilty. and now you're angry at me. i hear what you're saying to me. "krissa," you're saying, "i'm hurt and i'm giving you the cold shoulder."
but you know what, new york city? that might have worked the first day. maybe even the third. somewhere around the sixth day, i was still apologizing to you, begging you to bring me back into your warm embrace, pleading for you to stop torturing my delicate little hands and face.
but i've stopped feeling guilty. now i'm just mad. every time i turn a corner, there you go again, with your wind and your falling ice. now instead of shrinking like a wallflower into the embrace of yet another store, yet another coffee shop, i shake my fist at your violent, angry winds.
i say, fuck you, my old lover. i'm not going to stand down and give in to your blasts of dramatic furor. no, no. suck yourself, you shriveled up, frigid little bitch. i'm not going to take this crap from you anymore.
that's it. i'm going to go sleep with another city.
January 21, 2003
love and sex -
love and sex - and never the twain shall meet?
Saturday night found me in an awkward position - feeling like I was a pawn in between a girl who’d dumped her boyfriend and the boy, whose heart was wounded. Walking away ftom the bar, tottering drunkenly on my heels and feeling low, I asked myself - what is it about sex and love that make independent, resourceful, otherwise rational people behave like spoiled children on a playground?
For a species whose biological imperative is to mate, why do we make it so complicated? We’re created to love sex. Why? So that we’ll have babies, of course. Then who created feelings, and why? Any first-year anthropologist knows the answer - because human babies are weak, unsupportable things that need many years of tender loving care, and the two people that created it often find a deep, instinctual craving to provide that. Fine, then why the connection between sex and love? So that eventually, two people will join the two and create babies. QED, right?
No. I live in a city with seven million people. Seven million unique, fantastic, completely individual souls, everyone, on some level looking for
love. Like my friends on Saturday night, it’s not easy. It’s sometimes not even worth it. Girl meets boy. Boy likes girl, girl likes boy. They decide to give it a go. After a few months, they walk away from it, pride wounded, heart broken. When someone takes a piece of your heart, they’ve got it. Forever.
The wedding I went to last weekend was remarkable in one of many ways - these two people had only ever loved each other. How blissful, I thought. When they closed the door on all the well-wishers at their wedding, when they put their arms around each other and had sex for the first time, that’s only two people in that bed. Her, and him.
Not so for the rest of us. When I have sex with someone, essentially, I’ve got anywhere from three to fifteen other people in bed with me. The girl who made him feel like his body was not sexy is the reason he might not turn on the light. The girl who treated him badly in the morning is the reason he won’t spend the night. The girl who got away might be the reason he’s here with me. Sex is complicated. We treat it like it’s not - we have one night stands, we have month long relationships where nothing is committed, nothing is shared, nothing is broken. We’ve alienated sex from love - ironically, because they two are so intricately linked.
The result? Couples who torture each other by flirting with other people after they’ve broken up. People who’ve convinced themselves that having sex with total strangers for animalistic pleasure is more rewarding than finding someone you connect with. People who fall in love with everyone they’ve slept with because the mere idea of someone wanting you is more appealing that someone really wanting you. People who find the right people, and then find the right reason to leave them because of fear. People who associate sex with power. People who are afraid to be vulnerable. People so wound up in finding love that they settle for the first reasonable fascimile thereof.
The result? A city with seven million fascinating, unique, and individual people, so many people looking for love and sex to mean the same thing, and so many people alone.
January 17, 2003
just like that radiohead
just like that radiohead song.
last night on the subway, i saw this guy who looked like someone else, and i totally almost jumped up and made out with him. it helped that he had the best hair ever. for real.
i get on the train and i just stand about
now that i don't think of you.
i keep falling over, i keep passing out
when i see a face like you.
i hate you, radiohead, and your painful appropriateness.
January 16, 2003
ignore everything i've said
ignore everything i've said in the past week.
nothing matters now. nothing, you hear? because, because, because -
oh yes.
ohhhh yessssss.
fulminous and i are going to shack up with the book, a weekend's supply of food, and some liquor and smokes - and just read straight through. it'll be like an orgy - only without sex. wanna come?
look for the glaring
look for the glaring metaphor ...
i had a dream last night. this is what happened in it:
i was vacuuming leaves off the front lawn, buck naked.
what in the sam hell does that mean .. oh, wait ...
January 15, 2003
and it's not even
and it's not even a monday ...
this morning, i was rushing out of the house. as usual. i was gussied up in knee-high boots, a skirt, a generous down coat, and a fuzzy hat that stunts my peripheral vision. hurrying down the stairs [is there any other way to get to work?] and putting my gloves on, i encountered the following problem:
i started to fall.
only, i was putting my gloves on, so of course, my hands were rather occupied.
when i tripped the first time, i managed not to fall. but the first trip led directly into a opposite-direction re-trip, causing me instead to lurch forward, tripping over my own feet and overestimating the lean-forward it took for me to save myself from the first trip.
this is all very technical. the point is - i totally ate it on the stairwell. sliding sideways down five stairs, my hands still uselessly entangled in my gloves, i made a mockery of all things graceful and finally came to a skidding, ass-first halt on the cramped landing.
at this point, one foot is underneath me and the other foot is two steps above me. i have landed on my ass, and broken the fall by slamming my head against the wall.
fanfuckingtastic way to start my day.
but the best part was, it was actually really funny. and no one was there to laugh with me.
but i'll tell you what - sliding out of the tub last week and smacking my head with extravagant, slippery force on the radiator? wasn't funny. even afterwards.
nor , for that matter, was sitting on the couch naked and wet for ten minutes, listing all my ex-boyfriends and countries-lived-in lists in chronological order, just to make sure i didn't have a concussion.
matt-michael-david-jacob-george-brian-jimmy-siegfried-flavio-matthieu-alex-max [not counting random flings] .... okay, argentina-aruba-morocco-newjersey-abidjan-tunisia-houston-kenya-newyork-egypt-rhodeisland-new york. okay. i'm fine.
January 14, 2003
bare with me. ha.
i'm still a little too braindead and busy to actually entertain you all with my stinging wit and imaginative funny bone. so instead, here's seastreet's answers. enjoy.
have you ever:
Ever been so drunk you blacked out: yes. once. at some inexplicable point in the evening, I broke the face on my watch. NO idea.
Missed school because it was raining: if by that you mean, simply not gone to class – yes. several times.
Put a body part on fire for amusement: no. this is a silly question.
Been hurt emotionally: I quote seastreet: "AHAHAHAHAHAHA." and furthermore, *sniffle.*
Kept a secret from everyone: yes. except erin, who knows all my secrets. and isn’t bloody telling.
Had an imaginary friend: I was an only child and I grew up in africa. what do you think?
Cried during a movie: oh god. people, I cried in hocus-pocus. hello.
Had a crush on a teacher: yes. specifically, my writing professor, melvin. what a peach. I don’t care how old or married he is.
Ever thought an animated character was hot: the fox in robin hood. whoa. hottty.
Had a New Kids on the Block tape: sadly, yes. but in my defense, I also liked Queen at that age. so, I was still cool.
Cut your hair: yes. everyone told me not to cut bangs, so I DID. and they rocked.
when was the last time you:
peed your pants: ? I have no freaking clue. what an inane question.
hugged someone: sunday. *sniffle* it was erin.
kissed someone: and meant it? august 8, 2002. randomly? new year’s eve (thanks, cruellittleman.)
cried over someone: watching raychul and matt dance, bawling my eyes out because no one will ever love me that much. *sniffle*
favorites:
Shampoo: mmmmm, aveda.
Soap: lever 2000, baby. for all my body parts.
Color: this is stupid. I love all the colors.
Day or Night: again. why do I have to pick?
Summer or winter: autumn. HA.
Lace or satin: christ, neither. cotton. and silk.
Cartoon Characters: the simpsons. and the peanuts gang. because lucy is my alter-ego.
food: comfort food? spaghetti bolognese. cooking to seduce someone? pasta buonajuti. fabulous sunday brunch? quiche and a walnut mandarin salad. stoner food? anything with cheese. sandwich? BLT. morning food? french bread. after sex? a nice tall glass of water.
Ice cream: haagen-daaz strawberry, right outta the pint. oh yes.
Fave Subject: what is this, high school?
Normal Drink: non-alchoholic? coke. alcoholic? a balthazar – pineapple juice, vodka, and chambord, in a swanky martini glass.
Persons to talk to online: sarah b., wang, and of course, seastreet.
right now:
clothes you're wearing: my lucky jeans, knee high brown boots, a brown cashmere sweater, a white down coat, "thursday" underwear, and my fabulous attitude.
feeling: like curling up in bed with a pot of tea and a pack of smokes and reading straight through the narnian chronicles. or, flying to estonia.
Eating: a donut.
Drinking: tea.
Thinking of: nothing. my brain usually shuts off when I get to work. but this morning, I was thinking about sex.
Listening to: NPR.
in the last 24 hours:
Cried: no. but it’s not unusual.
Worn a skirt: yes.
Drove a car: sadly, no.
Do you believe in:
Yourself: I get into trouble when I don’t, so yes.
Santa Claus: I was irrefutably proven his existence when I was 10.
Tooth Fairy: by which you mean, my mom giving me money? yes.
destiny/fate: not particularly. but bizarre coincidence and premonitory dreams usually rattle my psychic chain quite a bit.
Angels: not unless they’re giving me big wads of cash.
Ghosts: answer me this – if you were dead, why would you hang around THIS hellhole?
Cody Webster: who?
friends and life:
Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend: no, but I do have a smashing tendency to fall for exactly the wrong guy about once a year.
Like anyone: oooh, why, are you going to tell? *giggle*
Who's the loudest: seastreet said - "I'm gonna have to take the fifth." he totally meant me. I’d have to agree.
Who's the shyest: I don’t trust shy people.
Who's the weirdest: definitely, definitely, brandon and may.
Who do you go to for advice: erin, who knows everything. raychul, about spirituality. seastreet, about life and books and sometimes even sex. everyone else, about la vie quotidienne.
Who do you cry to: erin. bethie. my mom.
When did you cry the most: all of college.
What's the best feeling in the world: love. outside of that, a nice game of squash.
Worst feeling: betrayal.
January 13, 2003
regular blogging will resume
regular blogging will resume shortly. until then, yet another list.
ten things about my best friend's wedding
10. weddings are like giving birth. there's a lot of pushing and screaming and general mayhem, and at some point in the proceedings everyone says, "why god why", but as soon as it comes together - it's bliss.
9. the father of the bride. who gave me a big hug when i was crying, because he knew exactly why, and told me it didn't matter where i got married, that he'd be there.
8. how to be the auxillary bridesmaids, or as erin put it - the "bridesmaids'maids": smoke cigarettes with mercy and mahan* and keep them from crying every twenty minutes. run out at the last minute to find "big-ass safety pins".
7. doing the trinity's work: the heart and mind standing up in front of 400 people to read passages on love for the soul's wedding. we love you, raych.
6. smoking cigarettes with chuckles and zacha**, two of my favorite little brothers, in the JCC parking lot, wearing zacha's tuxedo jacket, and then getting scolded by erin for "contributing to the delinquency of minors" (i think she was just jealous) was my bad-girl highlight of the reception.
5. the reception: losing my voice to a combination of cigarettes, hysteria, and loud music.
4. hearing mahan's hilarious renditions of her hysterical persian mother: "you are like hitler!"
3. two words: ass village.
2. erin's catch-phrase for the weekend: "where's my lighter?"
1. watching raychul and matt dance their first song, speaking their secret language of happily-marrieds, clutching chuckles' arm and crying, hoping that one day i'll really know what it means to love someone that much. no matter what my wedding is like.
* mercy and mahan - two of the sweetest, funniest, prettiest girls known to man. and also, raychul's bridesmaids.
** chuckles: kick-ass little brother of the bride. smoove operator. general bad boy. when not operating under the moniker chuckles, he's known as matt. but when raychul decided to marry a matt, it all got confusing.
zacha: mercy's little brother and the ying to chuckles' yang. total lady-killer.
January 12, 2003
quickly, oh yes. other
other than dead feet and cried out eyes, the wedding was phenomenal. but ...
remind me in ten years to elope.
January 09, 2003
if i had a
...i'd buy you all a round. short of that, a list for you:
three girls i want to get drunk on fruity cocktails with while hitting on all the bartenders: sarah b., fish, and babs.
my favorite gay hugh hefner: fulminous.
boys that are actually absurdly good-looking in real-life [trust me, i know.]: matthieu and seastreet.
girl i totally want to get drunk over mexican food and make fun of ex-boyfriends with: anna.
guys i totally want to have weekly sunday barbeques with: greg and chuckles.
real-life guy pals who absolutely rock my face: christopher and lucifer.
guys i want to go to concerts with, and then get drunk and beat at board games: jason royal and jack saturn.
women i want to be: heather, claire and dooce.
man i'd totally have monkey-babies with: monkey, of course.
guys i'd totally make out with: wait, i'm not telling you that.
and now, for something completely different:
i'm going to texas this weekend and you're not [unless you live there]. so, another list:
top ten reasons that my weekend will rock the pants off your weekend:
1. house of pies. [if you don't understand, you never will].
2. slamming back coffee, scarfing down pie, and chain-smoking cigarettes at house of pies.
3. spending time with 3 of my 10 favorite people in the universe: erin, raychul, and matthieu.
4. raychul's wedding.
5. austin: magnolia's queso, driving down quadalupe making fun of frat girls, three dollar packs of smokes, drag rats, coffee at metro, taco cabana at three a.m., erin's jetta, stop'n'shop fountain drinks, buffalo exchange, and reuniting with the unholy trinity for the last time as three single girls.
6. two words for those in the know: lupe's tortillas.
7. houston highway driving.
8. erin's mom.
9. warm[er] weather.
and ....
10. leaving new york city to fend for itself for a while.
see ya'll on monday, folks.
he's going to rock
he's going to rock all your faces. at the same time, yo.
go to cendre. see his new beta version. look at his photographs. tell him to tell his model how beautiful she is. tell him he's all that.
matthieu rocks my face.
matthieu rocks my face.
matthieu rocks my face.
penance, ya'll.
January 08, 2003
i'm all for bizarro
i'm all for bizarro world but this is ridiculous.
when the most popular rap artist is white and the most successful golfer is black? i say kudos to sending the world topsy-turvy. revolution, kiddies.
but when the G.O.P. decides to hold it's convention in new york city? in gotham? land of the democrats? land of the huddled, the weary, the poor? the free, the brave, and the straight-down-the-ticket democrat upper-west-side liberal elites?
hey, i'm not that old, and i remember new york city hosting the 1992 democratic convention.
what has the world come to?
that's it. moving to canada.
January 07, 2003
the best reality show.
here it is, guys. the show that'll make bachelor look like a romp in the park:
premise: a girl and a guy like each other, but aren't sure if they're right for each other. what do they do?
hook: they ask their friends for advice. no, literally. ten of their friends have a series of round-table discussions, ultimately using binding arbitration to decide for the couple their fate.
buzzy catch phrase said in deep voice by commercial dude: "Find out what happens when your friends take "friendly advice" to it's limits. Jury of your Peers. Coming soon."
I am going to make a ton of money selling this to fox. oh yes.
January 03, 2003
tut tut, what would
tut tut, what would freud say?
situation: you think you've gotten over someone.
posit: you still inadvertently picture having sex with them at random moments in your day.
proved: you're not over them.
let's take a trip
well, well. isn't it nice when the world pretends it's giving you something for free? like, say, airline miles?
after my heady jaunt to sunny rio de janeiro, brasil, in march, i will have a whopping 25 thousand miles under my belt ... enough for a US ticket.
sell your city to me. make me want to come visit*. make sure there are plenty of monkeys to be seen, and strawberry ice cream to be had, or possibly even horses to be ridden across wide open plains.
* offer excludes boston, DC, or ugly places like ithaca. peeps, i can get there by train.