Beaches 11

after a long arduous day at work, after finally making it home, after finally heating up my warm breakfast cereal for dinner dinner, I finally sat myself down at my laptop computer/the-future-is-now entertainment station with one goal in mind: to achieve maximum relaxation/minimum brainwave action via hoo-loo streaming videos. in lieu of my usual 'I'll just watch trailers of movie's I'll never see,' I went straight for the kill. and was denied twice the movies of my choice (indiana jones and the last crusade and The 10 Commandments - tho, now that I think of it, me not finding it might have less to do with the fact that the cine-web can't be bothered by a 3.65 hour epic biblical tale from 1956 and more to do with the fact that I actually searched for a non-existent movie entitled The 12 Commandments. Sisters Colleen, Christine, Beverly and Maria are all, with the help of Jesus, spiritually knuckle rapping me from a distance.) but I did luck out on my third choice, drumroll please. . . . Beaches. 

yes, Beaches. Bette Midler and Blossom as Bette Midler's character in her wiley youth, across from Barbara 'your name makes me want chocolate' Hershey and some generic brown haired youngin who's name name I don't recall/never knew because she didn't go on to star in her own TV show. (but, wait, ilvs, you can't remember the girl who played Blossom, either. -what do you mean 'played Blossom'? -the  actress who played Blossom. -again, phrasing I do not comprehend. -actress. has name. - yes. Blossom. is Blossom.). . .  it has been a while since I saw that film, probably since my best friend was a horse loving straight A catholic school girl named Molly. I was in the mood for some tear inducing, ovary warming eighties nostalgia. a, ahem, girl's night sunday night slumber party for one, if you will. and I did. 

well, that is, until the interweblord deemed my shared with 8 other people wifi connection 'too slow' and black screen froze up on me and hour and 22 minute into it. I hadn't even gotten to the part where she gets bed riddenly sick! talk about a buzz kill. but then, just as I had opened up this blog site in order to write a scathing rant, the universe interceded and there came a knock at my door. enter in my best friend/neighbor, stopping in to say hello and hey why have you been acting so weird lately I'm worried about our friendship what gives. and the scene that followed was like it was pulled from the future, right out of the brain of the screenwriter of some targeted-at-women movie maybe it will be called Beaches 11. Tho, that title makes me think it might also have like a diamond heist involved in it. regardless, feelings were shared, tears were shed, mutual understanding was come to. which is good, cuz, well, I'm still waiting for the rest of the movie to buffer. 

it should be noted, that while our little heart to heart was happening, I was dressed in half my pyjamas + half my street clothes + stripey blanket of peruvian influence = slow moving emo ninja in a blanket, and BFF was fresh from a performance so had on full drag make up and a wig and platform shoes (her american flag unitard hidden under her fur collared bright blue over coat). and while we sat on the edge of my futon, my feline BFF, BABY SEAL, was loving the crap out of the moment soooooo much she decided to say so by attempting to lick the freckles off my hand/the buttons off my calculator watch. never has so much love occurred in such a moment in time under the exact same circumstances. I feel blessed to have been such a part of such best best friend estrogen trifecta. thank you Bette, Chocolate Lady, for paving the way. my uterus is positively aglow. 

what to get your sister's mustachioed boyfriend who already has a lifetime supply of mustache wax:

Book Report: The History of Love

Eager to delve into the salty seas of literary pearls this New Year, I checked myself out a copy (upon Eagle's chit chat recommendation while waiting for the next available teller at the local credit union we both engage with) of The History of Love by Nicole 'Rhymes with Strauss' Krauss. Twas a good read, all in all. Though I will confess that, in my eager beaverness, I dove a little too deep, too fast. (wait, beaverness?) As in, I sat myself down at my local tea shop/smoothie shop and read 70 pages at a time, reader me running at full gallop. And while my eyes certainly registered all n letters, spaces, punctuation and singular typo, my brain did not. Picture if you will: a wild frontier with two horses all geared up, clopping away at full speed, thingies that connect their harnesses to their intended load dragging behind them on the ground, and left behind in the dust, me, standing in my grounded chariot, coughing and rubbing her eyes. (Horses = my eyeballs. Me = well, me, my brain. Eyes = the eyes of my brain.) So then I found myself more than halfway through the book and seriously confused.
Enter in Internetted study notes. Never in my scholastic career did the need arise for me to make use of such crutches! Yet here I am, the setting sun of school long behind me, and I'm fumbling in the dark trying to unclasp the secrets of said lovely novel. So, yeah, I had to read the summary of the book to actually understand the book. The book, for the record, is not complicated. There were just some key facts that I glossed over in my sophomoric attempt at speed reading that made it, well, confusing.
Speaking of speed reading and the history of love, of my love to be exact, I once dated a speed reader. She was not a speed reader by profession, but by hobby only. Which maybe added to the irritation I felt over how frickin smug she was at how frickin good she was at it. Ack! I can remember sitting next to her in bed, both of us nosed in our own books of choice, but me only just barely, hanging by fingernails, mine, on the the thin ledge of words lined up on the pages because I was so distracted by the affrontingly triumphant sound of her page turning! It was happening so fast! And so loud! Oh, the sound! A gold trophy scraped down the length of a chalk board in an otherwise quiet bedroom. And to top it off she had the audacity to enjoy herself via actually being able to understand the tale at such break neck speed! Ack! I'm tensing just reliving the memory!
Interestingly enough, my repressed competitive streak and equally repressed/completely underdeveloped resolve to share how I was feeling at that point, were somehow - get this - linked to how I related to her throughout the entirety of the relationship. And ultimately led its untimely demise.
I am happy to report, though, that knowing she could read what took me one hour to write in under 30 seconds is no longer filed under 'THINGIES THAT GET MY GOAT.' Nor am I as fervently chomping at the bit to plow through the next book, Everything Is Illuminated. I intend to take my time on that. Which is probably doubly in my favor as the plot lines, I'm told, are pretty much (and controversially) the same.

a recourse on remorse

things that rhyme with horse

please. don't hurt yourself on my rapier-like wit.

what have I been up to?
well, I'm glad you asked.
I have been:

1a. listening to opera CD's chosen randomly/based on the cover from the CapHill library's fine selection.
1b. not liking the opera I'm listening to.
1c. being wowed by some opera singers' incredible talent of singing notes higher than the piano.
1d. still not liking opera on a whole.
1e. being ok with not liking the opera/considering reclassifying the library's selection from 'fine' to 'totally not my cup of tea.'

2a. committing to memory the following: ABCDEFG. this seemingly basic activity is requiring my attention 5 days a week from 8am to 850am, and still it is hard.
2b. but it is good.
2c. and inspiring me to:

3a. really get crackin on my music career starting with bringing into reality the newest of new ideas for a conceptual band. ready? it's gonna be called HUMAN CLAW. it would require me to move to easternish washingtion and learn to love/play/shred death metal. and find a small handful of other folks to join me. preferably those of british cockney descent because nothing is funnier than a play on words that gets cancelled out aurally, and thereby doubled in hilarity, all due to a thick accent that is inherently funny due to its borderline incomprehensibility to begin with.
3b. or I'll just sell my idea on ebay.

***

in other news. . . my neighbor, Basketball, is slowly destroying/devouring the pair of orange swimming goggles that I put in the hallway's unofficial designated freebox area, starting with the black head strap. apparently, there can be only one black and orange creeper in the hallway, feline or otherwise.

welcome back!

good gravy it's been a while!

much has occurred since early august. for instance: I have new digs. I am renting out a weathered beach house on the hill owned by Peter Peter Jennings, brother of BABYSEAL. things I am acclimating to: direct sunlight (well, weather permitting), a kitchen with cabinets, floors I wear shoes on, a bed I do not have to climb a steep ladder to get in, and neighbors who love 430am LadyTron. all in all, a pretty sweet deal. even the LadyTron was tolerable/cancelled out by two things: the turning on of my small fan and this dream I had:

I was in a store. department store I think, not a food store. and I was in my underwear. light grey (not heather grey, like dirty tshirt grey. 'cept without the dirty part) boys boxer briefs. and some kind of tshirt. I was with two who were possibly friends: Dude and his GF. I was standing there, not looking at anything 'cept maybe down at my underwear. Dude was at a clothing rack looking at clothes and he looks over at me and says 'Hey, I like your box.' I was slightly embarrassed, not because he was referencing my underpants but because of his unintended double entendre. GF and I were on the same page cuz she looked at me kind of embarrassed, then at Dude, then back at me and said, ''Box' is what men call Boxers,' to try and cover for him. so I looked Dude standing there, oblivious at first but slowly catching on, and said to his face something to the effect of, 'That's cool. 'Box' is what women call their vaginas.'
then I woke up to the bass beats of LadyTron with moon light streaming in my window.

huzzah! stay tuned for more updates/stories/announcements/whatever you call something that is like an opinion but differs in that I am right regardless.

much love.

More on Camping

Not to be confused with Moron Camping. Something I do not partake in, thank you very much. But since we are on the topic of to be improved upon ways of doing things, I shall indeed take this moment and the next, muchisimas gracias, to expound upon several items of notable interest.

First off, twice it has been called to my attention that my newly acquisitioned tent resembles something of a coffin. I have no photos of it to upload at the moment so you will just have to take my biased word that it does in fact not look anything like a coffin. It is Tan and Red. Coffins are Black. Case closed. And if any celebrity look-a-like comparison is to be drawn, it shall be my me here now: my coffin- ack! now you have me saying it. ahem, my TENT resembles a Star Wars X-Wing fighter:

. . . Minus the X-Wings, of course. And the obscenely large hand.

And it should be noted that it took me a good 3 minutes of internetting to find that image and learn that it indeed belongs to the realm of Star Wars.

3 minutes is like forever in space.

More if you have gigantic fingernails to buff, paint, polish.

Back to my story.

So, while my inaugural camping outing was sufficient in the crazy weather category for my little star fighter away from home to prove its worth in the midst of a deluge the likes I have never seen before in my life, my second outing served to illuminate the fact that nylon and mesh fail big in the sound proofing department. Not that I had high hopes for a quiet night situated how I was. Cuz really, camping within 50 feet of a giant-hand sized bonfire + about 150 inebriated peoples cavorting/zombie staring/hippie dancing all around it was more of user error than anything else.

What else.

One last note. Mosquitos. God made dirt and dirt don'- OW! m&therf#cker! is what I have to say about that. My tent was superb at keeping the little f%kers out. (or in, as the case was one unfortunate night. it's like we, mosquito and I, snuggled up and fell asleep at the same time, slept through the night peacefully, only to die/wake up at the crack of dawn with me slapping myself in the face to kill it as it kissed me good morning sunshine.) Hippie Bug Spray, on the other hand, far, far away from the first hand, did not exactly get an A in that subject. Hippie Bug Spray is like more of a suggestion of repelling than actual protection. A passive aggressive one at that. 'Hey, uh, I know you survive on stabbing me with your proboscis and all, and - OW! oh, sorry, didn't mean to startle you, I know you have family to feed and you're really - OWIE! F&CK, sorry. you're a really nice bug, insect, whatever, but maybs you could not do - OW! MOTHEROFGOD, uh, that. if you could not do that, for the rest of our hang out, that'd be really swell.' I mean, a nice non chemical smell and environmental concern goes a long way, but not as long as itchy bumps all over my extremities it turns out.

This coming weekend will be yet another chance to escape to non city space in my tiny space fighter. Being the type of person who hops in on adventures when other people have already made the plans, I cannot tell you exactly where I am going or what the conditions shall be. But rest assured, I will be warm, dry and at the very least, engaged in some kind of mediated conversation with native bug life.

***

On a side note, it should be known that my soon to be ex-neighbor (what is this? mor'on that later. . .) is playing Christmas/New Years songs. It is mid August. I'm not saying, I'm just saying.

Other fact of note, today, August 16th, is the anniversary of the death of Mr. Elvis Presley.

Which is also the anniversary (#2) of the near death of Mr. ilvs strauss. And while singing harmonies with the king of kings and the king of all other things sounds really dreamy, this prince is pretty happy to be here to see another year. So a Happy New Year it is.