Love Parade, Part II.

Love Parade: not really my scene? I'm glad I went, although it didn't cure my ennui, and it definitely didn't answer any questions about the nature of love, unless love is walking down the street with a bottle of Thunderbird in a brown paper sack and wearing no pants.

Argh.

CRANKY PARADE!

Today: less despondent, but still a little weird. However, all these bad vibes should be wiped clean away by my attendance at San Francisco's very own LOVE PARADE! Whooo! I don't really know too much about this, except that it may destroy my will to live, or fill me with a glorious sense of well-being. At this point, I'm not leaning in any direction. I'll give a post-LOVE PARADE update. Go love...I guess...hmph. Uh-oh. I better get there pronto.

Sigh. Now that I'm feeling despondent, I'm really ready to go meet Accordion Man. I think he could give me some perspective. But he's not out there this morning! Lesson learned.

On another note (note! HA! HA! No bad mood will stop the puns, I tell you!), I found a guitar in the trash yesterday. It's pretty unplayable, but it's old and looks cool. Who loves trash? ME!

I was out by the recycling last week; there was a big pile of paintings next to the bin. I was rifling through them when Fabiola, the apartment manager, came up to me. "Those are not good," she said. "Yes, you're right. These are not good." Then we walked upstairs. Sometimes I need a little help deciding what's good and what isn't.

Dammit!

I NEED THESE.

I know it's wrong. The day when I am free from desire is far, far away. But: oh...my...GOD. These are the most powerful shoes I have ever seen. Feast your eyes on them, let them enter your heart. You can't disagree.

help!

The Accordion Man is out there right now, and I'm at a crossroads. If I go talk to him and ask him about his accordion, the mystery will be gone. But I really want to know his story! Decisions, decisions.

Cutting back

I decided it would be a good idea to leave the house at least once today, so I walked down to this little zine shop in my neighborhood. I overheard a conversation that I will not soon forget. Allow me to share it with you.

Male Employee: Hey, do you want one of these gummi candies?

Female Employee: I don't know. What's in them? (She takes the bag, reads ingredient list.) Um, yeah, I can't have these.

Male Employee: Why not?

Female Employee: They have muscat in them.

Male Employee: What's wrong with that?

Female Employee: That's some kind of little animal, right?

Male Employee: Noooo, muscat, not MUSKRAT! Muscat is a green grape! HA!

Female Employee: Oh. (She does not crack a smile.)

Male Employee: So, do you want one?

Female Employee: No. Too much sugar. I'm trying to cut my sugar. I'm trying to cut back on
a lot of things.



Yeah, no kidding! Her total fun/enjoyment of life intake must be at an all-time-low. Muscat! HA!

Ah, Venice...

This painting should answer a lot of questions for my dear readers. Of course, if certain dear readers are having difficulty with interpreting this artwork, they should call me to discuss. Booyah!

My life has taken a turn for the awesome. Unexpected, exciting surprises keep popping up. This weekend yielded many. For example: Today I discovered that after drinking like a fish and eating constantly since I moved to SF, I am no fatter than I was when I left.

Secondly, I am meeting many interesting new people. I will say no more.

Nextly, I will be attending the Franz Ferdinand concert in a few weeks.

Most importantly, I am now the proud owner of a George Foreman Grill. Said Grill has been sitting in my parents' garage for many years now, but I think it was only waiting for its true owner to come and claim it. Grilled cheese sandwiches, here I come! Question, though: Can you really cook steaks on those things? I mean, I trust George Foreman implicitly, but seriously.

The Telephone Call

Now that I've rejoined the literary world, all I can think about is quality literature; reading it, creating it, appreciating it. Uh, yeah.

Because my mind is absolutely transfixed by the power of the word, I thought it might be appropriate to share some of my favorite words with you. Because they're so awesome, you see, not because they have anything to do with anything in my personal life. I don't have time for a personal life! I'm in graduate school, for god's sake.

For this reason alone, I offer you an excerpt from Dorothy Parker's short story "The Telephone Call." I think that Dorothy Parker has a timeless quality; I mean, this story could be printed in Jane and would be very well-receieved. Enjoy.

I mustn't. I mustn't, I mustn't. Oh, God, please don't let me telephone him. Please keep me from doing that. I know, God, just as well as You do, that if he were worried about me, he'd telephone no matter where he was or how many people there were around him. Please make me know that, God. I don't ask YOU to make it easy for me--You can't do that, for all that You could make a world. Only let me know it, God. Don't let me go on hoping. Don't let me say comforting things to myself. Please don't let me hope, dear God. Please don't.

I won't telephone him. I'll never telephone him again as long as I live. He'll rot in hell, before I'll call him up. You don't have to give me strength, God; I have it myself. If he wanted me, he could get me. He knows where I am. He knows I'm waiting here. He's so sure of me, so sure. I wonder why they hate you, as soon as they are sure of you. I should think it would be so sweet to be sure.

It would be so easy to telephone him. Then I'd know. Maybe it wouldn't be a foolish thing to do. Maybe he wouldn't mind. Maybe he'd like it. Maybe he has been trying to get me. Sometimes people try and try to get you on the telephone, and they say the number doesn't answer. I'm not just saying that to help myself; that really happens. You know that really happens, God. Oh, God, keep me away from that telephone. Keep me away. Let me still have just a little bit of pride. I think I'm going to need it, God. I think it will be all I'll have.

Oh, what does pride matter, when I can't stand it if I don't talk to him? Pride like that is such a silly, shabby little thing. The real pride, the big pride, is in having no pride. I'm not saying that just because I want to call him. I am not. That's true, I know that's true. I will be big. I will be beyond little prides. Please, God, keep me from, telephoning him. Please, God.

I don't see what pride has to do with it. This is such a little thing, for me to be bringing in pride, for me to be making such a fuss about. I may have misunderstood him. Maybe he said for me to call him up, at five. "Call me at five, darling." He could have said that, perfectly well. It's so possible that I didn't hear him right. "Call me at five, darling." I'm almost sure that's what he said. God, don't let me talk this way to myself. Make me know, please make me know.

I'll think about something else. I'll just sit quietly. If I could sit still. If I could sit still. Maybe I could read. Oh, all the books are about people who love each other, truly and sweetly. What do they want to write about that for? Don't they know it isn't true? Don't they know it's a lie, it's a God damned lie? What do they have to tell about that for, when they know how it hurts? Damn them, damn them, damn them.

I won't. I'll be quiet. This is nothing to get excited about. Look. Suppose he were someone I didn't know very well. Suppose he were another girl. Then I'd just telephone and say, "Well, for goodness' sake, what happened to you?" That's what I'd do, and I'd never even think about it. Why can't I be casual and natural, just because I love him? I can be. Honestly, I can be. I'll call him up, and be so easy and pleasant. You see if I won't, God. Oh, don't let me call him. Don't, don't, don't.

God, aren't You really going to let him call me? Are You sure, God? Couldn't You please relent? Couldn't You? I don't even ask You to let him telephone me this minute, God; only let him do it in a little while. I'll count five hundred by fives. I'll do it so slowly and so fairly. If he hasn't telephoned then, I'll call him. I will. Oh, please, dear God, dear kind God, my blessed Father in Heaven, let him call before then. Please, God. Please.

Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five....

Strange Magic...

Have I ever mentioned the mysterious accordion music that I hear in the mornings? It seemed to come from the sky or ghost pirates or some other ethereal source, but the other day I saw an elderly man with a tiny accordion sitting in front of the retirement residence across the street.

This makes me very, very happy.

ain't life grand...

Let's just say that last night I got to see The Decemberists, one of my faaaavorite bands, for free, at a sold-out show at the Fillmore. I believe that fate had something to do with this turn of events. They were so incredible and rockin', and I love, love, love the fact that millions of other people also support the return of the sea chanty. There was even a sloppily constructed fake shark on the stage for a while. Yes!

Basically, I have only this to say. I put GII on in the background while I was doing some things around the house, and this time, the songs really stood out. Bobby Brown does a number of tunes on the soundtrack, and I love it when soundtrack songs are actually about the movie. I think it's really funny. Will Smith loves to put this into practice every time he comes out with a movie. "Wild, Wild West," anyone? Or, "Men in Black," one of my all-time favorites. So danceable!

This time, it's PERSONAL...

A terrible thing happened the other day. I was talking to someone, telling them my woes about school and all my little worries, and they were like, "Uh, yeah, I already read that on your blog. Heard it!" I never meant for this blog to be so much about me and my feelings, and for a long time I was trying really hard to write less specifically about ME, but what's going on with ME has really snuck in there and I think the oodles of information about ME is here to stay.

But, I will never, ever, ever post anything about my love life on the internet. Even though it makes for some interesting blogs (check out the genius Hot Toddy's website for proof), I think on the whole, some things are meant to be discussed in person, with certain individuals.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! I'm at Tully's right now because my home internet isn't working, and one of my personal heroes just walked in! A mattress-sign man! Okay, so you all know I'm obsessed with mattress culture and hopefully will become famous for my research on the subject. I've got so many mattress-related projects in the works, it isn't even funny. One of these includes interviewing and possibly photographing the guys who hold the signs on street corners that say "Tempur-pedic Half-Off!" I really want to know what they have to say; I'm sure there are some good stories. I think that sign-holding in general is a fascinating job, and way more brutal than it looks.

"Anyone need a Tempur-pedic bed?" Oooh, he actually asked the whole cafe that question before he walked out the door. So bold. I think you have to be.

By the way, I totally meant for this entire post to be about Ghostbusters II, but I got distracted. Prepare for a GII tirade any day now.

I did it!

One week of graduate school down, innumerable weeks to go! I'm so happy. So far, my classes are fantastic. I think it's a good sign when my first assignment in my first class is to read the latest play by my ultimate favorite modern playwright, Martin McDonagh! Yes, a very good sign. And, what a great play; The Pillowman, in case anyone feels like getting acquainted with some brutal and totally hilarious comedy. And in my other class, I'll be making my own book, typesetting my own writing on a real live letterpress machine thingy. Very exciting.

Next obstacle: finding work. I'm working at school tomorrow, serving up potato salad or something at the graduate student barbecue. I'm actually glad to be working it, instead of having to awkwardly mingle for hours on end with my fellow students, whom I hardly know. I mean, couldn't they have the barbecue at the end of the semester, when I actually have some friends?! Gee whiz. Perhaps I'll just sing that enchanting tune from The King and I: "Getting to know you, getting to know allllll about you, getting to liiiiike you, getting to hope you like meeee!" That should get the point across.

A moment of reflection...

So, I know that this blog is all about me, me, ME, and it's especially been the case lately, since all I've been doing for the last two weeks is pacing around this apartment giving careful consideration to the concerns, thoughts, and problems of yours truly.

But there have been a few short moments when I've put ME on the back burner and tried to put my thoughts with the people in New Orleans and the Gulf Coast. Their lives aren't going too well right now.

It's always weird when something incredibly awful happens, and you realize that you get to go on with your little life like nothing ever happened; completely unaffected and unburdened. The tragedy can be easy to ignore if you turn off your tv. That's been MY experience, but for people like Sue at www.pillowvspincushion.blogspot.com it's been a little different. She's lost her hometown, had to worry about the health and safety of her immediate family, and has the right to be really angry about the way our government has handled this crisis.

I guess, I just want everybody to just take a second and be aware; think about those who have been affected by this and take a moment to feel compassion and empathy for them. It's not a donation of a million dollars, I know, but it's the tiniest little something that anyone can do. And if you do have a million dollars, click the link to Sue's blog and donate!

Anxiety Hodgepodge, vol. 1

Ungh. It's 10:30, I'm drinking dreadful white wine and listening to "The Morning Bell." I think it's tolling for me. School starts tomorrow, for reals, and I've got nerves, again. I'm wearing an inspired ensemble though; something I always thought I would wear to trapeze class once I got a little more skilled. Hot pants, anyone? It gets really hot in this little apartment. Ohhh. Speaking of trapeze, did I ever mention the crazy-ass hippie girl who reveled in giving anyone and everyone full crotch shots? It was just embarassing. Please, for the love of God, woman, don't swing around on a trapeze wearing a skirt and a thong. It just wasn't that kind of class.

I'm hoping that next semester, when things calm down a bit and I can find, as Derek says, some more sugar without the daddy, I'll be able to study more trapeze at this place called Acrosports here. 'Cause, like, I'm all about the mind-body connection, you know? Seriously, though. I really liked learning trapeze; it was really, really physically demanding, and that was a nice challenge, since I'm a real lazy-ass.

Dude. I used the words "crazy-ass" and "lazy-ass" in the same post. Sigh. Either I'm the best writer in the world, or they're going to kick me out at first glance. It's really hard to say.

Restless...

I was feeling stir-crazy again today, so I walked about 2 miles each way to see The Aristocrats. Oh, what a great movie. Right up my alley. As Derek can tell you, I have a secret penchant for the crass and profane. I also saw a mind-blowing preview for a Sarah Silverman (genius!) comedy special, directed by Liam Lynch, the mastermind behind Sifl and Olly. I'm very much looking forward to that.

On the way home, I stopped at Japan Center for some agedashi tofu and a bubble tea. I also had to buy these candies, because not only are they the absolute embodiment of all that is aesthetically pleasing to me, but they look just the little candies that the soot balls eat in Spirited Away. Yes, I'm a sucker for marketing. But look how cute!

Karaoke Outfit

I haven't always been a karaoke genius. It's taken years of honing my craft to reach the level of power that I'm at right now. Last night I realized something, though: it's not the song choice, or singing ability, or even dancing skill: it's the outfit.

The karaoke outfit isn't necessarily your favorite outfit. I tend to dig mine out from the back of the closet. But it must be carefully chosen.

The karaoke outfit must feature at least one bold statement. Either a bright color, tight shirt, or tiny skirt; all these will achieve the desired effect on your psyche. Something special. An old beloved favorite. Also, a new or exceptional accessory can do the trick.

Let me make myself clear; these accoutrements are not for the audience. They're for you! If you can wear something with a little edge, you're guaranteed to feel more confident, and in turn, rock harder. If you're ballsy enough to wear a sparkly gold belt over an orange shirt, go-go boots, and dangly blue heart-shaped earrings, then of course you can sing ELO's "Don't Bring Me Down," even if you don't think you remember all the words. With the right karaoke outfit, all fear evaporates.

Oh, and the booze helps too.

By the way, I need some help from old friends. My friend Will is claiming that many years ago, I sang "Money" by Pink Floyd, and was faced with the tragedy of a 91-measure break. Can I please get some backup here ? It was not me, but Damian, who conquered this jam. I would never, in a million years, dare to sing a Floyd song. I mean, come on. Not my style. However, William isn't taking no for an answer, and things are getting heated. I need to win this argument; I will die of heartbreak if I find out that I've had not one, but two karaoke song blackouts. The shame would be unbearable. Help me, please.

So this is why I'm paying $26,000 a year...

Ahh, relief. After weeks of having that funny feeling in my stomach, I finally attended my grad school orientation this morning. I shouldn't have been such a panicky wuss; everyone was so nice. Much nicer than you'd ever expect graduate students and professors to be. It was a huge blur of information, but my confidence is back! I once again feel like this is something I can do, and less, as David Sedaris so aptly put it, "like a hillbilly baby."

BUT...writing program, fancy writers, friendly professors, kind students; these factors all pale in comparison to an unexpected benefit: FOOD. Now I understand why tuition is so high; instead of a bologna on Wonder bread lunch, we were served the finest of quality sandwiches. I opened my styrofoam box to discover a fresh baguette, encasing turkey, gruyere, and some kind of fig spread (seriously people, fig spread?) and a gorgeous salad of arugula and field greens.

Later, after I returned from getting my new student ID, a glorious party had been set up in the writers' lounge, featuring all manner of beer and wine, a fruit platter that included papaya, blackberries, and mango, as well as all the other standard fruits. There was even Manchego on the cheese platter, for God's sake!

Who are these people? What have I gotten myself into here? Hopefully there will be an adequate education to go along with all these gourmet treats, but at this point I don't really care, as long as I can stuff my face with "free" food.

Oh my god. This guy is walking across the street from my building. He's wearing yellow pants. But here's the thing: he's actually pulling them off. Wonders never cease.