I know, I know

but, really

"Except under pretty rare circumstances, in any crisis, when I was nineteen, my funny bone invariably had the distinction of being the very first part of my body to assume partial or complete paralysis. Ridgefield and Miss Kramer did many things to me, but they didn't come at all close to amusing me. Three or four times while I was going through their envelopes, I was tempted to get up and make a formal protest to M. Yoshoto. But I had no clear idea just what sort of form my protest might take. I think I was afraid I might get over to his desk only to report, shrilly: "My mother's dead, and I have to live with her charming husband, and nobody in New York speaks French, and there aren't any chairs in your son's room. How do you expect me to teach these two crazy people how to draw?""


"Even today, as late as now, I have a tendency to wince when I remember that I brought a dinner suit up to Les Amis with me."

maybe?

maybe above all, I value curiosity, so that if you're ignorant as a kid, you're ok, but if you're ignorant as an adult, it's gotta be at least partly your fault.

And maybe that's why I like boring movies. Because if you have to be handed the suspense, I don't care to hear your opinion anyway.

I don't even read comic books

so I don't know why everything in my life feels like it needs to have an origin myth. And why I'm constantly recreating them. And how they must never be the same for the other people who were there.

"it's a Christmas song the same way Die Hard is a Christmas movie"

• Twelve Dollar Haircut (Love Hotel/The Silver Bells)


• Cold White Christmas (Casiotone for the Painfully Alone)


• December (Teenage Fanclub)


• Hawaiian Baby (Spinanes)

concrete poem

from my sister, circa 2005

so.I.dropped.my.phone.in
.a.cup.of.beer.and.now.
some.of.the.buttons.don
.t.work.Like.For.Example
.The.Space.Key

got it, kid?

I was thinking about what you were saying about no one considering why it might be /bad/ for it to work out, and I think you're right, because it involves giving up so much of my fantasy life. And the thing about one part of my brain and the other?, that has to do with limits versus reasonableness—theoretical vs. practical, if you will.

Remember the guessing the beans at Open House night? I was terrible at that.

I know where the "I can't" comes from

I totally forgot about the "as long as I can" clause.

of course there is a Cephalopod Appreciation Society

I was totally about to write a blog post praising the guy who did this (and possibly begging someone for an original print (can you do prints of stencils?), or, indeed, a copy of this) and really, how could it possibly get any more exciting until I found out that this is opening this weekend and who doesn't want to spend all day watching them dissect eyeballs and stuff?

the arrogance of universal guilt

And why do people who (think they) are misunderstood like so much to force misunderstandings? And don't you get the feeling some times that there's a deliberate disconnect, making our reason outrun our emotions the way your fingers can't type as fast as you think?

I think I'd like a little forced sense of subjectivity, and time, and taming, and a lot more of some other things.

This morning I was listening to that call-in radio show where you answer a quiz about this week's news by filling in the end of a limeric, and this girl called, and they read the poem, and the answer was Wendy, and everyone with a microphone knew it, and I guessed I knew it, not from anything but the rhyme, and she said "Mindy?", and they all cringed and tried to help and someone said "Everyone knows it's ______" and she said, "Well, /I/ don't know" and sounded insulted and the whole tone of everything shifted and I wanted to say "Oh, no, he meant the song! It was a hint!" and how often does /that/ happen?

I just didn't want to be part of your deficit

I have this plan which is to take photos of dead bugs, 'cause, boy they seem to die in some totally undignified ways. (One dove into my toothpaste spit this morning, come to think of it.) Of course, there's no time for that at the moment, so this strange thing is happening where I say, "oh yeah later" and now little shrivelling carcasses of bees are accumulating all over my house.

Man I would have liked to have taken care of this before it flew off my roof and was a) hit by several cars, b) picked up by some nice "driver" c) taken to a mysterious building in Redmond which d) I searched for for about three hours and e) turned out to be in well not that office park but the one across the street, though was f) eventually handed to me by a very nice man who still g) never once in the six times I called him actually told me what the name of the company was, or why they have drivers in the first place, or how they found my parents' phone number and called several times between then and eight o'clock this morning, which means mom in turn called me again at eight o'clock this morning and I think I'm getting too old for this stuff.



But he's definitely getting flowers.

I think that when I grow up that I will see math every day and use it every day

If there's a cute boy working at a restaurant, and he probably only works five of seven days, and likely only works one of four sections at a time, if you don't know which section he works, where you'll be seated, or even what days he's scheduled, how many times do you have to eat breakfast at the same restaurant to have him say more than "someone will be right with you"?

how important is it to be nice if you feel like you're a pretty nice person when not pressed into strange circumstances?

And is there a nice way to pin a note on your dog that says

"Yes—pet him, not me."

?

You ever do that thing where you're kinda flirting with someone, and no one's admitted that that's what you're doing, and you end up watching a movie or something, and he yawns, or has to whisper something to you, or whatever will get his breath closer to your ear/neck/mouth and it's all wonderful and exhilarating and you wish he always had something important to say, but there's also this kinda G-rated version where you're sitting on a couch and here comes the kitty/little yip dog, and suddenly everyone just /has/ to pet it, and your hands overlap, and it's like that scene with the spaghetti? It's really one of my favorites.

But, Mr. Stranger in the coffee shop who likes to talk to me about my dog when I'm obviously working on something and that something isn't trying to get you to rescue me from a boring piano bar: It's really not the same thing, I promise.

and incidentally,

We've always thought we were only fooling,
But look at us now at least a little in love.
We've always said that our heads were ruling,
And I don't know how but here we are.
This I'll admit is a fine how-do-you-do,
But this might be I-discover-I'm-for-you.
And just as sure as it's more than fooling.
It's quite a lot more than just a little in love.

actually doing just fine

Somebody hit my car the other day. I saw this guy getting in his car, and I pulled in behind him (in the 30 minute spot) and waited for him to leave. And waited so long that I figured he couldn't possibly be any longer. And waited so long after that I just couldn't give up at that point. And waited a little longer.

I finally decided to chance the ticket and closed my door and had my hand on the car to reach around and open the back door for the dog and he hit me. I saw the dog lurch; I felt it under my hand. I kinda couldn't believe it. Obnoxious guy in a gold SUV who takes a million years to leave because he's arranging his home office in the passenger seat and he slams into my car on the way out of (by the way) an enormous parking space.

I yelled and threw my hands up in disgust and moved the car and checked the bumper and got the dog and all my belongings out and headed for the coffee shop. The guy apparently saw me flailing and came around the block and stopped me to see what happened. Well, I explained, you mean when you slammed into my car? Apologies and radios and is it ok, and are you ok, and sure fine whatever, just, you know, watch it. Nice calm lecture. I didn't even get mad. Mostly flabbergasted.

And it was today sitting across from a new teacher letting her in on secrets when I realized, oh yeah I was going to call a shrink, huh?

I don't usually use this space for advertisements

but even if I weren't still in love with Bottle Rocket; if I didn't have an art girl's crush on a certain pair of women with clipboards; if I weren't completely jealous that I don't live in Portland this week and next; and especially, even if I hadn't already planned to have my honeymoon at The Bridge Motel (seriously—it's the only plan I've made, and it involved having one of the rooms completely redone in the style of the Honeymoon Suite at the cardboard Venetian hotel in Top Hat), I would still have enough of a motel aesthetic fetish to suggest that this is really exciting to me, and anyone who wants to grab a polaroid camera and join me for the evening is hereby invited/encouraged/however strong an invitation you need for such a thing.

(It's on Saturday. I'll probably remind you.)

this week

This week three people asked me if I got new glasses, though I've had the same ones for years. An old friend looked at my driver's license picture and said, "Your hair's changed" and I said, "Wasn't that an awful idea—those streaks", like I was laughing back at my halcyon self from decades in the future.

I don't know what it means that I miss his cat more than I miss him, or even if it's true. I don't like how easily "good thing we're not friends anymore" rolls over my excuses. I /really/ love this song (and am suddenly scared of what happened at the turn of the century). And it's weird how vivid my dreams are getting.

I'm reinvesting myself in things that seem cross-wired. Like, smells you can drink, and inside things outside.

Mostly, it's nice to feel nice and not crazy. Be cool if that kept up for a while.

not (just) a list of married men I'm halfway in love with

Had a talk the other day about context. About context and respect and the peculiar resolution that comes between the golden rule and manners and the horrible misunderstandings that can result from faulty implementation. And I realized that I'm forever going back and forth (excess and abstinence!) between (trying to be) the guy with the Coke in the paper bag and the lawyer talking to the girl who cried rape (I think I'm on a crusade to have everyone read this book) and that, actually, as with everything everyone tells me, reality should be somewhere in between. It isn't of course. But anyway, in the spirit of the request posted yesterday (and the completely fortuitous e-mail I received this morning), here is a list of things I sometimes read on the internet (newly posted, for your continued edification, in the sidebar of this blog):

Some (Sort of) Blogs
(and assorted other things I (Sort of) Read)

Drew
Fred (and his videos)
GJ
James
Joey (and Emily)
John
Night Cabbie
Noonie
Sean
Sean
Sean (and Dan and Jordan)
Tyson

These I have added because I can nicely and quickly speed through and make sure I've read them all—make sure I'm up to date; (also, blog readers don't work for those of us who think people might have arranged things in a particular way for a particular reason (did you know font matters, too?)); because it pleases my OCD to tap through a list; because people who write well and make me happy might as well get my sponsorship; and because, do you ever shy away from making a mix tape, or even suggesting a new band because you don't want to hear that "Oh, yeah—I've totally heard of them; their last record was way better, though"?—now you know what I read (now that I finally read), and you can tell me where the rest of it is (Does the guy from Wolf Parade write anywhere? (The one who writes about his dad, not the one who writes about technology.)).

Oh, yes, I'm also in love with the geeky guy who writes about the interface of indie rock and high tech organizational strategies, but that seems like a cupcake kind of thing rather than an every day lifeline.

Point is,

(If you would like to be added, removed, or aliased, please, write to this address and tell me why.)

I will respect all reasonable wishes. Also, if you'd like to write just to keep me from becoming a shut-in who communicates only through semi-personal anonymous blog postings, that'd be cool, too. (Can you tell I'm having a little separation anxiety?)

miss you already,
me

p.s. thanks to one of those guys I'm in love with, I may soon be in love with this guy, too.

a question that only really seems right on the internet

As I am planning to disappear until around January, and as I tend to get all the information about things I like from people, I've decided it's finally time to start reading magazines. If you would, please send me any suggestions, positive and negative—e.g. "Copper Press is ok but Paste is a waste of time". Also, if anyone comes across anything they think I'd like in the interim, feel free to mail it to me with a bill.

Also, Sean, it is boys like you who make me want to wear dresses and glasses and eat alone in fancy French restaurants, hearing Russian philosophy from waiters, living wistfully and then appreciating, incurably, the cute boy who can rescue me from grammar books with music and pinball. Good thing you live in Canada.

grammar is hilarious

You know how bands sometimes have a "press" link at the top of their websites, and sometimes that means "here is some press we've gotten" and sometimes that means "press—go here!". I try to think of it as a standoff between opposing camps rather than simple carelessness.

I've also been thinking recently that if people on sidewalks would just maintain course and speed the way you're supposed to in a boat, my life would be considerably less confusing.

things it will be perfectly graceless not to have in a matter of days

• toilet paper
• medium-base flame-shaped lightbulbs
• some kind of organizer (/box) for the books in the back seat
• a miniature set of utensils (all separate, please—no space saving sporks and fnives)

subtle love

I'm fond of saying that my favorite demonstration of affection, ever, was a friend of mine who, after a night of drinking, would wake me up with a glass of water and a handful of B vitamins saying straightforwardly, "Here—take these."

I'm always (though I'm trying to get over it) feeling like I should do small things to make people happy, but also like I'm somehow not appreciated for the things I do do. (Like, I don't want the "thanks", but I do want the "you're welcome".) And then the other day I asked my dad where he wanted to sit in the booth at the restaurant and he said quietly that he was waiting to take the outside seat so he could grab the check when it came.

I make fun of my dog for not having real instincts about some things. Like, he hates toys. And if you give him a bone he'll take it, reluctantly, and then dig a hole with two swipes of his nose and kinda put the bone over it, kicking some dirt as he walks away. But there's this one toy he does like—a squeaky giraffe—and when he comes home he picks it up and sits on his bed with it for a while. And then forgets about it until the next time he leaves and comes back.

And he's taken to burying it. Sometimes I let him out, and see him—through the front window, then the front door, then the back window—picking it up and moving it to the other side of the house and then burying it again.

And then this morning it was raining. And I woke up and the dog /really/ wanted to go out. I mean, I know it's been a while since it rained, and maybe you don't recognize that that's what's going on, but I promise, if I open this door, you're gonna take one look outside and realize it's raining and this panic'll be over. And I opened the door and he ran straight into the backyard. And came back two minutes later with his giraffe.

your heart opened your mouth

pg. 228

I'm reading To Kill a Mockingbird again

I'm reading To Kill a Mockingbird. And the language is striking. And every worry I had about reading it (namely, that it wouldn't be as good as I thought it was in eighth grade) has been completely dispelled. And it puzzles me that, while every other paragraph seems like something I should put on my wall (and each new chapter makes me think I'll need more chalkboard paint), what I'm struck by most are the issues of manners. Because, I suppose, it's so much more obviously about respect. And I hate the /It Girls' Guide to Manners/ or /Etiquette in the Age of E-mail/ books that keep coming out. But there's something appealing there, still. And I like the description of the nasty old aunt—the last of her kind, with "riverboat, boarding school manners"—and I keep thinking of that William Carlos Williams quote about the orderliness of verse.

Also, is there something strangely appealing about small-cast plays made obviously into films (and something equally distasteful about actors talking about acting)?