home again, sans jig

I managed to make the drive from Seattle to Missoula in UNDER seven hours, which is record-setting for me, since it's about five hundred miles. I-90, like I-5, lies in a bleeding heap and forever cursed as my defeated foe. I don't know if I've mentioned this on my blog, but I pretty much am the best driver in America. Just the right amount of rage and callousness and speed. Don't even mess with me on the road. People move out of in front of me from the terror-inducing faces I make in their rearview mirror.

That said, my time back has been great. My dear friend Kurt had the bong iced for my arrival, which may have been the best welcome one can have. Short of, um, you know. SEX.

Which brings me to meeting this very interesting fellow some of my friends have been trying to get me to meet. And I was pleased to discover his name is Ted, not Todd. Not that I think Ted is a really hot name. But the majority of my social/romantic/sexual experience has been with Tod(d)s, and so I am eager to break away from that name structure, if only to defy what may in fact be my destiny. But Ted is v. cute, bald (?! by choice, actually, and it works for him) seems to be smart and is pretty interesting/mayne to hot for me.

Have been at home with the folks for a while now, which is sweetly boring. Last night I was in bed before midnight, surely a record-breaking tradition. Mum is currently pulling me off to attend to some delightfully bucolic chores, and so I shall bring this rather dull entry to a close.

if i wrote a memoir for this summer, i would entitle it "fuck you seattle, you broke my gaydar"

But I won't. Write one, that is. All in all, it's been sort of a tragically boring summer, with the exception of catching a few ungodly hot shows and meeting a few of my favorite journalistic celebrities.

Today, I feel such a sweet rush of optimism, it's almost enough to forgive the weirdness, poverty and social exile this entire summer has thrust upon me. Almost. Mostly, it has to do with saying goodbye to my mates at the Stranger(there are, in fact, a few of them) and getting free burritos for lunch, which I was quick to claim was all for me, a celebration of my messianic presence in the world of a slightly stalled Stranger. Or not.

However, if the girl from IQU comes and gives me a copy of their CD, my heart will explode with joy and all shall be forgiven. But she probably won't.

I was thrilled to welcome my brother and his ladyfriend into my home late last night. Their presence here means that instead of merely spending the night packing, I will be packing and drinking. Which really, upon brief reflection, is the only way to do it.

Also, I am feeling a sort of desperate need to go see Hero after work. Which may involve dragging the kids along, but I will force them to acquiesce, with cattle prods, if need be.

The Tuesday/Wednesday visit to Portland was really fun. I can't decide if I like Portland because it's not Seattle, or if I actually do like it. I will have to revisit with a clearer head. I was ready to settle the age-old Seattle v. Portland debate with the unilateral authority I so richly deserve. But I realized that I was quite drunk off of two-dolla whiskey cokes, and so I decided to meditate on the issue with a clearer head.

I got to take a trip to the Goodwill bins of Portland, which is one of the slimiest, most hilariously fun things you can do. Because the customer demographic breaks down to about 2/3 scary foreigners (optionally with children in tow, optionally opting to grunt loudly instead of speak) and /3 hipster/picker crew. They're the ones you have to watch out for. That, and the possible hypodermic needle/used condom that could be swimming 'neath a sea of clothes. Yech. The smell and the slight wetness that covers everything is really gross, but fairly easy to ignore. I found an Yves Saint-Laurent sweater that I quickly ripped the tag off of (it was pre-priced, instead of everything else, which is pay-by-the-pound ($.99/lb!!!!!)). I was thrilled to find it, and felt absolutely no remorse for the three or four dollars I was depriving global goodwill of. None, I say!

Tomorrow, I hit the road. Early, methinks, if I can. I have a six o'clock partying date to make.

sightings

Friday was a pretty packed day for sightings, though it may involve an editorial blurring-of-memories on my part. I would rather have one day jam-packed with sightings like this than having them spread over two days.

But what's really important in this drawn-out introduction is WHO exactly was sighted. At Bauhaus, while killing time before my afterwork matinee, I saw not one, BUT TWO of the boys from The Girls. Which is confusing, but suffice to say, The Girls are an ultra-hot Seattle band that put on a hysterical, fun live show. The are also all boys. Oh, irony. Teehee!

Shortly after (or perhaps days later, who can really say?) I saw two familiar Montanans in a row. The first was the most beautiful man ever to attend my high school, a man whose name (Tosten) left him destined for a life of snowboarding and writing poetry designed to get him (MORE) pussy. He has these high-beam blue eyes that are truly a thing of beauty to behold. I can't believe I recognized him, mainly because it bothers me that he has gotten even more beautiful in the five-ish years since I have seen him. Bastard!

Mere seconds later, I saw this gangly fellow who fronts for some terribly uninspired Missoula band. He is a really nice fellow, but his band sucks and he has a really weird facial tick. Heart of gold, though. Seriously. Just not me.

On the subject of hearts, my post-work matinee was Before Sunset. Which I have already seen. And apparently I'm up emotional instability creek (prozac-free, natch) these days, because I cried. Not sobbing, just physical release of liquid from eyes. I arrive at this conclusion because the first time I saw the movie I didn't cry. And because I just don't cry. The only time I've ever really cried/sobbed in my adult life, I was so fucking strung out, OF COURSE I CRIED!

Why is this important? It isn't. Just sharing. Before Sunset really is a fucking great movie, though. I recommend it especially if you are obsessed with the first (as all people should be) with a special endorsement for the emotionally unhealthy! Yay!

It is now six days until I leave Seattle. Thank. Fucking. God.

I did recently convert to obsessive love for Easy Street Records. Saturday found me treating myself to an early Xmas on mum's credit card with The Decemberists, The Veils and AC Newman CDS. I was, for a few brief shining moments, as happy as a little girl. And for now, remain so when I am still listening to them.

I think when I go back to the house I will not leave it again tonight. I will not go to the gym, nor explore the rotten wasteland that is Federal Way. I will bury myself deep in A Storm of Swords, and who knows when I'll come out of it.

wheee!

Dear NBC - I KNOW you didn't just pre-empt Conan O'Brien for the fucking OLYMPICS!!! You bastards. Love, me.

In a heartbreaking yet predictable gesture, the three shows I would gouge one of my eyes out to see are all happening shortly after I depart Seattle, all within a week of one another:

IQU CD release / Helio Sequence - September 3, Chop Suey (goddamnit).
Unicorns CD Release - September 4, Neumo's (MOTHERFUCK!).
The Decemberists with Deerhoof and a handful of other musically glorious groups, September 9, and I don't even care where because I'm weeping too hard to even look at the flier.

Wah!!!

I saw Garden State on Wednesday. It makes me sad that a movie with such an incredible middle could have such a weak beginning and such a clunky, schmaltzy end. I tried to let the goodness of it conquer the weaknesses, and succeeded in loving it for a while. Some of this movie is hilarious, but it defeats itself. Plus, like this review says (http://www.thestranger.com/2004-08-12/film.html), Zach Braff does appear to be the worst kisser in America. Maybe he was just nervous about locking lips with Natalie Portman. But somehow, I doubt it.

Went to dinner with the benefactress and my friend interning with the legitimate media, which was fun. Speaking of the legitimate media, however...I finally got a clip with The Stranger. Nothing thrilling, but it is one step towards me not having my fucking journalism degree withheld - available here: http://www.thestranger.com/current/other_news.html

It's on top, right where it belongs. Yay!

I'm nearly at the end of my rope, with the end of A Storm of Swords close in sight. I may need literary methadone even more desperately than when I finished One Hundred Years of Solitude. Such a staple has Mr. Martin been in my wildly depressed little life.

Today, I'm going to see Before Sunset (again) after work. I fucking love that movie, and wish I had DVD player suburb-side so I could have watched its gorgeous precursor again. But since I have seen Before Sunrise at least seven million times, I might actually be able to stay up to speed. Perhaps.

Last night, I had a really fucked up La Femme Nikita tinged dream. And I'm not talking about the film. I refer, of course, to the USA Network cult smash starring sexpot Peta Wilson. Rrrowr. And the hot, short, be-mulletted French-Canadian guy. God, he looked so good with short hair. WHY COULDN'T HE HAVE JUST KEPT HIS BLOODY SHORT HAIR?!?! I am referring to this dream only to unveil my secret love for this show and not to bore you with the details of my subconscious. Not that I even remember the dream enough to do so.

Okay, I should probably be actively searching for things to work on. And cease my blogging. But if in five minutes, you are greeted by a vision of me hunched over my computer, desperately reading one of the two million blogs I read, then you are probably psychic. Which, as my visit to Seattle's Museum of Mysteries revealed, I am not. At all. If possible, sub-psychic. But I totally wasn't trying during that bloody test anyway. And yes, it was just like that one part in Ghostbusters. Without the electroshocks.

kibashed

I'm finally getting my shit together on my French paperwork. All the scary bureaucratic words panicked me, so I left the pile on the counter to be glared at in moments of idleness. This is how I deal with things I am afraid of. But time is catching up with me - I'm leaving the outer reaches of Seatthell in less than two weeks, leaving for France in something like five. So what was once a process to be reviled is now a task completed, as long as I can make it to the post tomorrow without lapsing into some kind of unexplained panic attack.

I'm not afraid now, per se, but I feel some weird pre-fear. All I've been thinking about lately is getting back to Montana, seeing my friends again, enjoying life rather than hiding from it in my suburban fortress. I remember getting up on Saturday, the day to go to Vancouver and feeling a longing to do nothing of the kind. It wasn't foreboding or anything like that (though it rightly should have been), it was more of a sad reluctance. It could be the hypnotic tale-weaving of George R. R. Martin - how I broke my eyes from the hundred and fifty pages remaining to me in A Clash of Kings, I can't say - but something tells me it is how I have adapted. Though I felt no warmth or welcome in Seattle, my dread of Federal Way (my very own suburb!) is a different beast. The walls are paper-thin, and so the unbidden screams of latchkey brats travel easily as the wind. Ravens are everywhere, as are the stripmalls. The people are morons and I'm living in one of those stupid named neighborhoods. So as much as I hate the house, I don't want to leave it - the outside disgusts me and Seattle frustrates me, so where can I go but further and further into my own head?

The dread is heightened by the return of my benefactress, full of the same fruitful complaints. Glancing back up at the previous paragraph, it seems a wonder we do not relate more intimately. So I am back in my familiar escape plan, the tacky suburban library where everyone talks on their cellphone and the modern fiction section is sparse-if-not-embarassing.

But I'm leaving soon. She's leaving on Friday. My paperwork is leaving on the morrow. I need to go into the city and see one of these fancy independent films the kids are all talking about. I want to chase a bottle of wine with pilfered prescriptions or smoke a joint, but these pleasures seem empty all alone. Plus I like totally don't have any weed.

so, I lived through it...

and my car didn't even get stolen! It was towed, for whatever fucking reason. I toiled long and hard to find a legit parking spot, and actually found myself parked right by the park where I lost my virginity! Surely a good omen, I though.

Neigh, my friends. Neigh.

I walked WAY the fuck down Hastings, in what was surely an ill-advised attempt to see what sorts of marijuanic resources Vancouver had to offer. I wanted to smoke a j so bad I could taste it. I ended up wandering into some kind of crazy homeless warzone, conveniently located next to lots of trashy country-themed bars and stores that seemed to have been closed so long it seemed hard to imagine them ever being open.

I started getting so sketched out, I fled as subtly as my fear would allow.

After lots of walking and sweating (I had so hoped V-town would be cooler, another disappointment) I finally made my way back to my car. Or where I thought my car was. I had a flashback to four or five years ago, in Vancouver with the family. My dad's car was broken in to and his golf clubs stolen. The police said that lots of American license-plated cars were vulnerable to vandalism. I thought for sure it had been stolen.

I managed to not freak out, believe it or no. I was loathe to call the folks, but I felt like I had to because I am quite the young fool and I had totally forgotten my license plate number. They didn't have it either, so I panicked them all for naught. However, the police were quite helpful and I was able to locate the car with some ease.

The towing place was under the bridge beneath Granville (one of the main downtown-y thoroughfares in Vancouver) and as I looked around it, passing by under-the-bridge-dwellers, smoking their drugs, I realized something. This is pretty much exactly where I had me my first taste of the sex! I was so drunk (back then, not to say I wasn't drunk later), exact geographic pinpointing was not even slightly an option.

So I got my car, the towing fee was surprisingly cheap ($30ish American) and all was well.

I almost wanted to leave then and there, but I was too alarmed at the thought of just leaving after that much driving, and without a taste of the local nightlife.

So I went to Celebrities, this club that seems to have sprung up pretty recently that was actually quite the hotspot. Three or four beers in, I get the oldest trick in the "How to Get Your Homely Friends Laid" book. The bait and switch! I should have known. I was at the bar and some scorchingly hot young man asked me if I was single.

"Um, uh, yeah," I said succinctly.

"Go talk to my friend!" he said. "He's totally sweet and very single."

The friend was homely, I admit - but after a year-plus celibacy and three beers, it becomes easier to blur 'homely' and 'fuckable.' SO I went over.

Yikes. This guy was a moron. He was a DIAMOND MINER, and had he not been so lame, I would have believed he was pulling my leg (after having missed my dick). We made small talk for what felt like an inhumanly long time, so long that his dumb ass repeated about half of the lame questions he shot at me.

I am so bad at rejecting people. Probably because I'm so shocked by a come-on, I usually sleep with the people who hit on me, regardless of how attractive I find them (usually, they're pretty fucking foxy). I finally dreamt up some story about a tragic breakup on about my eighth beer, and how fucked up I was by it, etc. IN a way, it's true. I'm breaking up with the idea, more and more each day, of finding love.

So the diamond miner stopped following me (AT LAST!) and I dissolved into the night air to grab some drunchies food, returning not long after to come close out my tab.

It took my still kind of drunk ass about three hours to get home, but I made it home to kiss the pre-dawn of five a.m.

The last time I saw that late an hour, I was obsessively finishing Game of Thrones.

Honestly. I almost wish I hadn't gone, so I could have spent the whole day wrapped around A Clash of Kings. But adventure is adventure.

i'm going to hyperventilate

Okay. Either my car has been towed or stolen. This is complicated by the fact that I am in Canada. And my passport was in the car. FUCKFUCKFUCK.

mood swings - back, and better than ever

Oh, how I still loathe them.

I hate journalism, because I lack any ability to manage stress.

When people look down their nose at me as I subtly challenge the validity and competency of their work or the work of others, I want to pound my hands against the conference table and scream, "DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND YOUR THINLY-VEILED CONTEMPT ONLY FANS THE FLAMES OF MY SUSPICION?!"

You do not want to piss me off this week. With my departure coming swiftly, in something akin to two weeks, I am freaked THE FUCK OUT. I need to grab a story every week, elsewise I am fucked thricely and not so nicely.

I'm going to the Bush protest tomorrow, and if that story doesn't run for whatever reason, I will shit g.d. bricks. It will not be pretty, bitches. Nor, I suspect, will it be pleasant for me.

I'm starving. I need to get my sad little hands on the sequel to A Game of Thrones like NOW. Before this little implosion goes any futher. I think I need to go somewhere to blow off steam - Vancouver is calling my name. Weed, hopefully still advantageous exchange rate and hot boys. Yay.

Excessive walking has left me smelling like a peasant. Only the dream of working for gawker.com fuels my desire to live - that and the possibility of getting laid, ohhh, I don't know, EVER AGAIN.

In good news, apparently blogger saved my post from yesterday, which was a lot more optimistic than I am currently feeling right now. I'll post it anyway, to express the disparity of mood swinging.

yeah, i'm feeling mushy

...but maybe I'm just woozy from the workout.

Shit like this (ED NOTE: WHY IS BLOGGER SO FUCKED ABOUT A HREF LINKS?! http://news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&u=/nm/20040809/lf_nm/life_cuddleparties_dc_1 )
s a good representation of what I like about The Stranger. Making sure everyone in editorial knows about this story through our frequently and hilariously abused email list.

I don't know. I wish I was able to turn myself around and appreciate the opportunity I've been given there. But I'm a new kid trying to break into an insular crowd. I'm already dishearted most of the time because I don't really have any friends in Seattle and I pretty much never have money. Most of the work I do is bullshit. I'm working on a side of the paper that, while valuable and well put together, is not the reason people love the publication. And surely it's not the reason I ever did.

But I'm trying to make the best of it. Trying to graduate college. Trying to get the three written clips that are the difference between me realizing the second goal and, well, not.

I really feel like if I wasn't so desperately insecure, I could have had a totally different experience. But watching staffer after staffer thumb their nose at me, I started to feel hopeless. I've come to realize it is neither my fault (fuck that! I'm charming as hell!) nor theirs (much as I resent anyone who would dare to thumb their nose at me). I blame Seattle, which makes people overly self-conscious and so guarded it makes me want to shake these fucking hipsters and scream, 'DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT IT MEANS TO BE YOUNG, YOU HOPELESSLY RESTRAINED COCKFACE?!'

Um, yeah. It's frustrating. But I've got a little over two weeks to make the best of this experience. And damned if that's not what I plan on doing.

yup, still a dork

Well, I can kiss my free time goodbye! Two new obsessions have been recently born. Last night I started A Game of Thrones, by George R. R. Martin. I was complaining about needing something Jordan-esque in size, but luckily I don't have to go crawling back to that old hack! Seriously, I don't see how anyone can get through The Wheel of Time series. I was really into it for a while, and I probably will crawl back to it, but the characters are so fucking redundant, and he throws so many balls into the air that the law of averages catches up to him, leaving the reader wondering why they haven't read anything about Perrin in, say, nearly one tome.

Ahem. Anyway. Game of Thrones is absurdly good and I am revisiting my inner dork. Yay. Appropriate, since my inner hipster has fled, put off by the haute snobbery of the Stranger. Or maybe I just haven't been feeding it...oh well.

Also, there's this immense world of message boarders that are all in the same program as I. Largely, it seems to be pretty topically inane, but there have been some hilarious writings about prophylactics and sex and shit like that. I think the reason I was avoiding such a site was to try and sidestep the full realization of my entire life's upheaval. Not that I'm particularly attached to my life as things stand now. I think over the next few days, I'm going to sort through the hoardes of unnecessary shit strewn about my room and car, get to my complicated visa shit and hopefully come into a fuller sense of self, as if by magic.

Yes, quite.

"drinking alone...sometimes i think it's better"

The above is a quote from my crazy Russian friend Helena. She is vying to be the biggest bitch in the world. This will be an entry composed of non-sequitorial little whatnots.

Last night, after work, I drank wine and watched Fawlty Towers. I saw Prunella Scales in "A Woman of No Importance" when I was in London, but she had a bit part. I was doing a London art history literature architecture theatre thing-y for about a month there, and we ended up going to the theatre for class a fair amount. I remember the prof saying that Rupert Everett was going to be playing a lead role. Alas, it was Rupert Graves. I was pissed.

Which reminds me...I watched Young Frankenstein a few nights ago. Much to my surprise, GENE HACKMAN is in the movie, as the blind man-of-god guy. Weird.

It rained so much that all the frogs came out of nowhere and stuck themselves all over the house. When I went out for a cig, two of them ended up inside. I was drunk, so I flipped out. Now they're showing up in random parts of the house and it's creeping me out like you wouldn't believe. Yucky.

I need to work on my French visa paperwork. I should go to the gym. There is a fair possibility I will do neither of these things. I want to hunker down with something Robert Jordan-sized and pretend the outside world has ceased to exist, that the frogs are gone and that I am not dead broke.

Luckily, I still have half an enormo-bottle of wine.

i think these pics made my layout wonky, but it's worth the scrolling

Work? Alarmingly hectic, on this day of all days. The periodic gloom is casting lovely shadows over a world too ugly to be viewed in such direct light. The normally overcast feel of Seattle fits it. Abundant sunshine does not - it just shows all the cracks and potmarks with a little more uncomfortable clarity. I've been chasing after the little scraps of stories left for me to feed on - and they slide away, rather predictably, into insubstantiality. No wonder I've been dreading work these days! Ew. For the last two days, I've been swimming through uber-bureaucracy, hoping - just hoping - to find some shred of a story. Even though the 'concerned citizen' on the other side is unwilling to talk to me, which would make my life SO MUCH EASIER. Blast! He, apparently, was so burned by The Stranger (TWO YEARS AGO, mind you) that he is unwilling to talk to lil ole me, even though I could make his life a lot more comfortable and his cause so much more visible.

Yesterday, I slammed the phone down and loudly decried him as a flaming cockface, which seemed a little too fair in retrospect.

The story I've been working on this afternoon is also going nowhere with a quickness. I just have to sit back on my haunches and hope to get called back.

And blog. Natch.

THE GOOD NEWS, and it IS good, people! I emailed my family from Paris, with whom I resided some two and a half years ago. Sabrina, my faboo defacto mommy emailed me back today. Everyone sounds like they are having a blast. She is more than cool (dare I day happy?!) with having me crash at their maison. They were basically the BEST part of my long-past time in France, back when I was (gasp) still a teenager! Barely. 19. Technicality.

Anyway, I have to post pictures. Because they are so cute and I was so skinny. Though I look like a fucking child with my hair that length, which is why I sort of don't do it anymore. Anyway, check it out, yo!







Aren't they adorbs?! One of my favorite compliments (slash potential insult to Alexis, the tall teenage kid with dark hair who isn't me (hint: red sweater)) was that I Alexis and I looked like brothers. I loved the idea that I could look like I was a member of that family.

Sabrina is this total sweetheart / literary agent woman who has a heart of platinum (gold seems insufficient, cornily enough). She's the hot readheaded number. Bruno, the patriarch, is this alternately uber-serious and wildly comic guy. So fun. He's an amazing photographer: if you go to this link, you can see some of his work. But these pics, here? They're exclusive.

The kids look super-innocent. But I smoked weed with the 15 and 17 year-old like, ALL THE TIME. Hopefully they haven't reformed! Wheeee! The kid in the middle, who is probably 14 or 15 by now, was very innocent then. Knowing his older sibs, he's partying like a pro by now.

saying buhbye - why so hard?!

It's weird to think about two of my best friends moving. And I'm saying this from a purely selfish standpoint, because I'm moving to - here, there, everywhere. But two of my closest boys, Jared and Josh, are heading for the hills of Austin, Texas. And while this is great - I'm fucking thrilled for them - I selfishly wanted to spend my three weeks of Montana time partying with them before I plunge into the icy waters of what I predict will be utter social isolation.

Part of me even wants to check the whole France thing (surely the worst of the many impulses running through my head) and follow them to Austin. Not that I have the money to make such a move right now. The critical reader might ask how I have the financial werewithal to be moving to France. Parents, I would hypothetically reply. Bless 'em.

But I really wish I was going with them. Partially, because I am partially responsible for planting such a crazy idea in their wee heads. Um, partially. I really felt the last sentance was only partially redundant. Um. Yes. But I'm not self-editing for whatever reason...ANYWAY!

I was talking Austin because that's where I want to go as soon as I come back from France, after what would hopefully be a brief hiatus chez mes parents so I could make some bank. Yes, I plan too far ahead, especially when I am very much joyless in the present. Exhibits A, B, and C are high school, now and high school (keeping in the spirit of reduntia).

I'm crazy for the idea of doing grad school in Austin (creative writing, NOT JOURNALISM, FUCK THAT SHIT, I SAY). Especially because their MFA program is unbelievable - Denis Johnson and Joy Williams are their visiting writers for the fall, and they have a three-year, dual-emphasis program that pays would $19,000 each year and you don't have to do a teaching fellowship. Um, yeah. And it's Austin, one of the blossoming hip-but-not-as-snotty-as-Seattle-(hopefully) meccas of the U.S. So, I'm jealous. And I wish if I weren't going with them they would have at least waited a wee bit longer.

But it's so crazy watching them runrunrun into the distance, with more motivation and momentum than I had believed either of them even fractionally possible.

I didn't really mean to go on so long about that, but I guess divergent roads have been eatting up my thoughts lately, especially with my darling E-Liz leaving for Florida yesterdayish, for the other school I'm applying to for grad school. And my own departure knocking at the door alarmingly soon.

Also, tangentially, I felt like I was in the 'Fleet Week' episode of Sex and the City today. You know the one! There were sailors EVERYWHERE, and I was semi-supposed to being hanging out with one. Alas, not a date. My very good friend Julia's brother and I were trying to cross one another's paths, to little/no avail today. Also, went to a dumb-ish art opening today that brought me back very suddenly to one of my adventures in Berlin, at this very unsual abandonned warehouse / anarchist art show thing. Except, you know, this is Seattle, transforming this experience into a sucky, bastardized version of my pleasant memory.

i'm so proud of me

Today marked my third visit to the gym, second visit in a row. I don't know how I got so motivated, especially considering that my diet is also going fairly well (meaning that I am choosing not to investigate the nutritional pitfalls of po' man's food like ramen). I hate the gym. Every time I think about going, I get this really unpleasant feeling. Like everyone else there is just going to maintain their physical perfection, and looking down on a lesser being like me, who let things get away from him for WAY too long. Like I'm their cautionary tale, the fuel to their obsessive devotion to the workout gods.

Ick.

In substantially lighter news, I got to take in Passions today. It was maybe even greater/worse than I remembered. Every once in a while on that horrible, horrible program you catch a one or two day run where everything that's going to actually happen in that month happens in one episode. Today was one of those days, but I wouldn't dream of boring anyone with those details.

What I WILL bore you with is the list of books that continue eluding me, in spite of my library-climbing:

Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin (okay, so I want to nurture my fantasy geek...SUE ME!)
Diary of Frida Kahlo by Carlos Fuentes (there are photos from the illustrated pages of her diary in the picturebook / slimmed down Frida history book that I'm reading...amazing. And she really was witty as fuck, I would love to get inside her head)
Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris (obviously, it's perma-checked out)
Of Love and Other Demons by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (because I crave more of his writing)
Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon

Bother! I hate to think that I would have to buy them (gasp!), especially consider my state of negative money.

Which brings me to...this just in, EBAY fucked the living shit out of me! Yay! I'm so fucking excited I could bite my tongue clean out of my goddamn mouth. FUCK FUCK FUCK, now not only do I have no goddamn money but I have negative fucking money. FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay. I'm going to try and forget about this by drowning my sorrows in the brain-suffocating delight that IS Amish in the City. Yes, I watch it, okay!!!! Jesus. Enough with the judgement. OKAY! I also think Jonas (pronounced Yo-nas) is hot, because really, he IS a bad boy, and thinking Kevan is hot is fucking boring.

housesitter or innkeeper?

Mercifully, my benefactress hit the road today. After sitting in bed for half an hour, wondering if I had the wherewithal to deal with her screwy ass so early, I got up to say goodbye. I was surprised to see a man who was soon introduced to me as her ex, who may or may not be my roomie for the next few days.

Joy, I thought. I finally get rid of a crazy woman and her kissass niece, and I get a backwards New Jerseyite in their place. I would not have leapt to this conclusion so suddenly, if not for a surprise in our early conversation. When I mentioned I was moving to France, he grimmaced.

'I don't like the French,' he said. 'Not after what happened with the war.'

'World War II?' I asked, appalled, but not entirely unsurprised.

'No, THIS war. The way they stabbed us in the back.'

Oh Christ. The whole freedom fries thing is so passe, and I can't believe there are actually people out there who are still swallowing the Bush bullshit.

Okay, no more politics. Really. I'll try not to do it again.

In other news, for some reason I decided to get all smarty-pantsed yesterday at the Seattle Library. There was a large fiction display of 'first novels.' I noticed Dancer, by Colum McCann, a hot Irish writer guy who spoke at my school about two years ago. This is his most recent novel, one which I'm excited to start reading. But I remembered that he had a couple of other novels, and the first is either Songdogs, or his novel about underground-dwellers in NYC in love. Memory eluded me, but the librarian still managed to give me the look of someone whose lawn I had just shat upon. She darkly agreed to look into it, and I walked away feeling guilty. Why I decided this was relevant escapes me. Maybe I felt like I had something to prove, what with it being my first day as a library card holder there.

Regardless, it is still somehow relevant enough to bring up in this, my new blog, which I had quietly sworn to myself would be clever-er and infinitely more relevant.

Old habits...

I was going to try and hit up Olympia today for the Homo A Gogo festivities, but it seems wildly ill-advised, considering my state of almost negative bank balance.

I NEED to go to the gym today. I'm trying to view the whole experience as financial rather than physical and I already paid my $80.

re-blog

I am jumping ship on my old diaryland account, so hell-O blogspot! This move is mostly symbolic (I just graduated college, starting a new life, blahblahblah) but this is also a hefty nod to the trends (ummm...d-land is like SO oves).

Not that you were taking notes or anything.

Anyway, I'm going to try and reign in my desire to bitch constantly about Seattle, my suburb-dwelling, my pauperishness, or my internship.

This restriction will allow me to focus on bitching about my involuntary celibacy, my general feelings of isolation and my crazy benefactress (the unstable woman whose house I am currently residing in (for free, I might add, so I could be a little more charitable to the poor woman (but, I mean, it's not like I'm saying it to her face))).

A more comprehensive, topical entry will be swift on the heels of this one. I'm just writing it off the cuff, totally without purpose, which you might actually want to start getting used to now.

But since you're actually reading, I'll give you a little smidgen of something more interesting. This came into the Portland Mercury as an 'I, Anonymous.' Those of you in the know know that 'I, Anonymous' is a column space in the Merc and the Stranger that allows people to unleash their misanthropy onto the general public while maintaining anonymity. It's usually pretty entertaining, and this is no exception. Let's not talk about how I got it - I don't really know if it's going to run this week or not, but it should, because it's fucking funny. Here it is:

> Portland Hipsters are becoming even more retarded these days with the
> emergence of the term, "Cheers". First of all, unless your tapping a
> glass to mine, or talking about Sam Malone being a washed up drunk or
> backwoods Woody and his antics, don't fucking say cheers to me. When
> I buy your shitty organic fruit from your hip little store, don't say
> cheers as you hand me my bag of apples. When I hand you your latte I
> make for you pansies, don't think about saying it or I'll shove your
> trucker hat so far up your ass, your stomach will wish it could still
> catch shows at the Blackbird. You're not from Great Britian, and
> you're not cute or original when you say it. You're probably the same
> cocksuckers that put, "da bomb" into circulation. So keep "Cheers" for
> when you're drinking PBR and congratulating eachother on your new
> casio keyboard purchase. Fucking sheep.

Wasn't that fun?! I thought so too. I felt a slight pang of guilty, given my brief ex-proclivity for saying cheers. In my defense, it was more of a 'fresh off the plane from a semi-extended stay in the UK' thing than a 'so hip it hurts' thing.