Thursday, April 29, 2004


I'm sorry I haven't been around - too busy at work to post during the day and too busy preparing for my party to post during the evenings. I can be a very sloppy person with way too much crap, so it's taking a lot of work to get the place guest-appropriate. I have writing subjects floating around in my brain, straining to be heard, but it'll take longer than the few free minutes that I have to write and post. Perhaps next week, my lovelies.

I do want to thank those of you who expressed concern about my last two posts, as well as those that sent me birthday wishes. It is very much appreciated. *mwah* But don't worry about my last post too much - I'm feeling a lot better and am looking forward to Saturday. Besides, right now I'm listening to Speed Racer as sung by Matthew Sweet (from Another Disc #12) - there is no way on earth a person could stay down with that song playing. Good thing my showroom mate can't see me chair dancing, though I dare say she'd be heartily amused.

Hope to be back soon!

Monday, April 26, 2004

wah friggin' wah... 

So. This is what 38 feels like? Huh. No matter what CuteNerdBoy says, it doesn't feel much different than 37. My limbs are, thus far, all still attached to my body; I haven't lost or gained an extraordinary amount of body hair; and it wasn't impossible to get out of bed in the morning. At least, not moreso than usual.

I don't know what's wrong with me sometimes. I tend to get very sensitive around my birthday and I don't know why. Well, maybe I do, just a little bit. See, I actually like to receive a lot of attention (hence my very occasional turn as actress), but I tend to feel as if I'm being pathetic and needy if I demand it. So I don't ask for the attention I want, which means I don't get the attention I love, and so I get pouty. And believe me, as yesterday wore on, I got very pouty. Just ask poor Boychik.

I tried to keep it in check, but when we couldn't think of anywhere to go that was very cheap (or free - we're both broke right now) that hadn't already occurred by the time I got to his place, then I felt as if everything was conspiring against me. Even though I knew that most Sunday events happen during the day and it was just the luck of the draw that my birthday was on a Sunday this year. We ended up just having dinner at a coffee house near my place - one which frequently hosts BookCrossing meetings - and then he took me home.

Accidentally breaking the cup which held my sage stick yesterday evening certainly didn't help my frame of mind, especially since I tend to be a bit on the superstitious side. Nor did the occasional "close to tears" feeling that swept over me.

So yeah, while my birthday weekend actually didn't suck, sometimes it felt like did, at least a little bit. I mean, I saw William Gibson and Glen David Gold (he's got a beard these days *swoon*) and David Rosengarten (he's been one of my favorite Food TV chefs for years - too bad he's not on there often these days). And dinner and a cool, perfect card from Sarriah, not to mention the e-mails and voicemail messages I've gotten. Maybe there are a few things I would have like to have been treated to, but it's certainly not as if no one took notice of my birthday.

Wait, let me look at the calendar. Why look at that! I do believe it's the week before, ahem, that time of the month. The Mighty PMS strikes again, laughing and crying and towering over all who would dare to think about suggesting I get some perspective. Silly mortals!! And I'm sure Mercury in retrograde isn't helping matters one whit. I can't wait until it goes direct on May 1st (the day of my birthday party - yay!).

(Yes, my dear skeptical readers, I do follow those silly lil' planets. See my above comment re: being a bit on the superstitious side. It's weird, considering that I have a very strong logical side that insists on facts and empirical evidence. *shrug*)

*pout* And I never did get that birthday sex I was hoping for. Though belated birthday sex would certainly be more than acceptable.

Sunday, April 25, 2004

tales from the festival... 

* Gasp! Homer Simpson? Possibly a poor dietary role model? Say it ain't so!

I was going to post more links (started this on Wednesday), but I ran out of time and then I realized that practically all I've been posting lately are links. It's not that I've had nothing to write, but I haven't had much energy. Just been really tired this week, due to not sleeping as well as I perhaps should.

But that's okay because I am writing this entry (or at least the bulk of it) from Ackerman Union at UCLA. Yesterday and today I've attended the L.A. Times Festival of Books and had a very nice time (no links because it'll take too much work, methinks, to back and forth - I can't open multiple screens as I'm wont to do at home and work). Yesterday I was with NewYorkWriter, attending a couple of panels and conversations - one with Ricky Jay and one about memoir writing. Then we sat under a tree and listened to William Gibson read from his new book, Pattern Recognition, which sounds interesting. I've not yet read any of his work, but I understand they are books I should pick up and check out.

Afterwards Sarriah took me out for an early b-day dinner, whereupon I crashed at her place for the night and headed back to UCLA this morning. So far I've attended two panels on fiction writing, one of which had Glen David Gold as a panelist. Being a big fan of his book, Carter Meets the Devil, I was very excited to see him speak. The other panelists (Herbert Gold, Marianne Wiggins and Jon Boorstin) were all very interesting and very entertaining, but I have to say my heart belonged to Glen David Gold during that session. Very funny, an excellent writer, friend to Michael Chabin (whose book Adventures of Kavalier and Clay is another favorite) and freakin' cute to boot. His wife (Alice Sebold, an author of some note - I've yet to read Lovely Bones) is quite the lucky lady.

I'm not sure what else I'm going to do today. There's another fiction panel at 3pm, but I'm getting rather tired. I started falling asleep during a session with William Gibson and Bruce Wagner, so I left that 20 minutes before it ended. I couldn't stay awake to save my life. I'm supposed to maybe get together with Boychik, but when I called him at 1:40pm he had just awoken from a nap and wasn't ready to meet me at UCLA. I admit I'm a little ticked, because we talked about it last night and, well, today's my birthday. Shouldn't it be about what I want to do? That's how I broach other people's birthdays. I guess I'm getting a little tired of having to arrange my own damn birthday entertainment. I'm throwing my own birthday party next week. That's okay, it's my own choice and I do love to throw parties and arrange things. But it also comes from learning the hard way that, if I don't do something for my birthday, other people probably won't think about it.

Okay, enough of that! No self-pity allowed, damn it! I'll deal, right? Next week is the week all my birthday wishes will be wished upon me (I've gotten a couple of e-mails and a voicemail message, so I just need to freakin' chill).

I gotta go - folks waiting for this terminal!

Now, if only I could find a way to work a little birthday sex into the day... *sigh*

Tuesday, April 20, 2004

i'm tired... 

...and I feel icky and grimy. Plus I'm achy from sleeping badly, with the muscles in my right shoulder and wing (you know, all around the pointy bone in the upper back - I don't know what it's called and I'm too tired to look it up) all tweaked and in pain.

It was one of those days that started out slow enough, but then became frantic. And, for the first time since I started this position, I was unable to finish all the quotes and mailings that were requested of me today. Oh, it'll all be ready by tomorrow morning, and I know everything will be cool, but damn! Talk about your slam days! I didn't take a proper lunch, being thankful that I actually brought my lunch for once. And if I don't leave this place soon, I'll have barely seen daylight today.

Thing is, as crazy as it was, it's still much better than Disney or Lions Gate. Pretty sad, huh?

Monday, April 19, 2004

more links... 

* Once again John has some interesting things to say - this time about male/female friendships and "The Hispanic Challenge".

*Christopher rewrites the lyrics to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Warning - if the movie is sacred to you, you may not want to click on that second link...

* Heather, hee! Star Jones buys at Payless, my ass. I've been an avid Payless customer for years and I've never seen her! Then again, she is in New York. Still, much as I love Payless, if I made her kind of dough, I'd shop somewhere else and not think twice about it.

* Heavens to Murgatroid, I sure could use me some of these cards. But I'd like to add a line to the Urban Asshole Card: making a turn in an intersection while pedestrians are within two feet of your sorry-ass car.

I've been known to do the following things to these fuck-heads, depending on my mood and the level of assholery involved:

  • Pointedly glare while crossing in front of them
  • Walk slower as I pointedly glare
  • Stop in front of them, gesture angrily
  • Shout obscenities while glaring and gesturing (though usually still walking)
  • Hit vehicles with hand or magazine - never something that will actually damage the car, which, as a rule, is an SUV or insanely expensive car.

    I'm usually a pretty happy go-lucky person, but lack of consideration and possible injury and/or death will always bring out my anger. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

    (Though Boychik says I'm pretty amusing when I'm angry, as long as it's not at him. I live to be amusing!)

  • new links... 

    There are a couple of cool, swanky new links over there to the side - Dead Lounge, which is an interesting yet oddly satisfying mix of goth and lounge cultures, and Polarbase, a journal with political rants, personal observations and reports from the hipster restaurants of West Hollywood.

    There are several reasons you should check them out: 1) they are really a lot of fun; 2) there are thought-provoking essays and rants; and 3) both are the online homes of my friend Polarbeast, a fella that was a really good friend in high school and for many years afterward. He and his lovely wife Bink (with whom I was also a really good friend in high school) are truly fabulous people, are new FriendsterFriends and I'm pleased as punch we're back in contact again. The fact that Polarbeast works down the street from me is icing on this yummy cake. Considering that I haven't seen him or Bink in over ten years and last week was the first time we connected in over six years, well, I'm naturally a happy camper.

    And look! The theme of "people from my past re-entering my life" that started last summer is still going strong! Who will be next, I wonder?

    Saturday, April 17, 2004

    get on with my big bad ol' self... 

    Despite my love of vampires and Terry Gilliam and freaky dark things and my penchant of wearing a hell of a lot of black, I'm not the most morbid of people. I don't like to contemplate death. I know that it's a part of life, the final part of life, but I don't like to seriously think about it for more than a few minutes at a time. Maybe that comes from having my older sister die thanks to a drunk driver when I was seven. Hell, I couldn't even read or write or think about words like "death" or "dead" for many years afterwards. And I refused to wear black at all until I was about 13 or 14, where I finally let one black skirt and one black pair of pants into my wardrobe.

    As a result, I've avoided going to The Death Clock site. I mean, what if it said I was going to die in five years? While knowing it's just a bit of coding, I also knew it would depress me. Besides, I've always said that I'm too ornery and stubborn to die anyway, and I fully intend on living until I'm at least 120 years old. The women in my family tend to live until their 80s and 90s, so by the time I'm that age, it wouldn't be beyond the realm of possibility that I could extend past that. Again, see above comment re: "ornery and stubborn".

    Well, I finally checked it out today. Don't know why, but I did. Guess what? According to that little bit of programming, barring accidents, I'm not going to die until Saturday, September 4, 2066! I'll reach 100 years old! And that's with it calculating my current BMI (which, I'm sorry, but BMI is the biggest crock of shit - there are so many factors it doesn't take into consideration). I think it's my optimistic nature that tipped the scales in my favor. Whee!

    Ya know, taking that info into consideration, and knowing that I'll freaking fight until the end, 120 may not be so far-fetched after all.

    It's a good thing my nature isn't a sadistic one. Else my death day would be Wednesday, July 7, 2004 . Yikes!

    Friday, April 16, 2004

    he's dead, jim... 

    Actually, he's not, which is part of the problem.

    Check out Keckler's recap of "Spock's Brain", easily the worst Star Trek episode ever made. And I'm talking all of the series, even the ones I've barely watched (I'm looking at you, Voyager and Enterprise.)

    A funny, funny recap. And Keckler has a big ol' crush on Spock and Leonard Nimoy. Girl's got great taste.

    (Side story: Many years ago YoungerBro pulled my name in the yearly Christmas name drawing. Knowing that I loved Star Trek and that Spock was my favorite character, but knowing almost nothing about the show, he gave me a VHS copy of "Spock's' Brain". I didn't have the heart to tell him how horribly bad it was. Over 10 years later it's still sitting on my shelf, unwatched. That's how awful this episode is.)

    it's a puzzler... 

    The entrees were placed on the table. I watched as the man sitting across from me contemplated the food on his plate and an odd flutter of anticipation danced in my solar plexus as I wondered, "Which would it be?"

    He placed his napkin on his lap and seemed to take his time in regards to eating his meal. Finally, after what seemed an interminable few seconds, he picked up his fork. The flutter turned into a full-fledged joyful jig.

    "All right!" my mind cried, though my face betrayed only the smallest smile. "He's a leftie!"

    It's strange, but there is something about left-handed men that I absolutely adore. Not that there's anything wrong with right-handed men. Considering that all of my boyfriends have been righties, I'm obviously not prejudiced against them. Hell, I'm a right-hander myself.

    But whenever I've gone out with a south-paw I've felt that extra thrill that right-handers can't quite inspire in me.

    I couldn't tell you why. The only left-handed person I knew growing up was my mom, but no male lefties. Maybe it's because they're in the minority. Or maybe it's because the first man I ever loved - back in good ol' GHHS - was a talented left-handed artist and writer. His work was the stuff of fantasy novels and Heavy Metal comics, with an intricately created world, language and alphabet. Incidentally, he was also one of the few men I've ever known to write not only legibly, but with lovely handwriting that obviously leant itself to the alphabet he had invented. (I soon discovered this lovely writing was not representative of all lefties. Far from it, actually.)

    While I can't say for certain that my high school love - who, BTW, I was never actually involved with (just a good friend - story of my life, apparently) - was the model for my attraction to south-paws, I can say that, for a very long time, left-handedness in a man has been a symbol of right-brained creativity, sexiness and virility. At least in my eyes.

    Turns out that I'm not the only woman to think so. Sarriah and I have discussed this subject, singing the praises of the south-paw male. Damn if seeing those boys with a pen or utensil in left-hand hasn't made both of us sigh with delight, if only mentally. Especially pens. I love watching a left-handed man write.

    And to answer a question that may be traipsing through your minds, yes. CuteNerdBoy is a leftie. It's no wonder I've been head over heels for that boy. WriterBoy is also a left-handed fella. And both of them are bespectacled. Oh, how I adore wire-rimmed glasses on a guy.


    Thursday, April 15, 2004


    It's been an...interesting week. Apparently my pheromones are in overdrive.

    Last Monday I was propositioned by a cute 24 year old boy via Match.com. On Friday, after a long dinner and coffee with Sarriah and Boychik in West Hollywood, Sarriah and I checked out a bar not far from her place in West L.A. because neither of us wanted to go home, we were both in the mood for one alcoholic drink and Boychik didn't want to drive too far from his West Hollywood apartment.

    We found a table, she went off to the restroom and almost immediately I was joined by a guy. Not bad looking, but very drunk, more than a little dorky and with tiny little discolored Chiclet teeth. Since I'm not familiar with being in a position having to reject men, he ended up buying both Sarriah and I a drink and sat with us until last call, asking me to dance at one time. He was actually a good dancer, but that's as far as it went. He did ask for my number, which I gave him, because I was curious as to what he'd be like sober, but I haven't heard from him. I can't say I'm all that disappointed.

    Saturday night Sarriah met me at my place and we walked to a bar nearby, where we were going to meet MidWestRoommate and her friend, who was visiting for a few days from MidWestRoommate's hometown. They arrived as the band started, very loud and trying to be very punk. MWRFriend apologized, but the bar was way too loud - would it be okay if we went somewhere else?

    No problem, said the rest of us. As we left, the guy manning the door - with whom I became slightly acquainted because I had to leave a couple of times to get money and to serve as landmark for MidWestRoommate and MWRFriend - took my hand.

    "Are you coming back tonight?" he asked earnestly.

    "Um, I doubt it. I'm leaving with my friends."

    "You should come back tonight."

    "I don't think I can."

    "Well then, come back another time."

    Uh, ok.

    Then tonight, after a solo dinner at the Newsroom Cafe (where the host winked at me as he sat me facing the entire room), I stopped off at Coffee Bean for a small mocha. As I drank and wrote, someone walked up to my table. I looked up and there stood a man.

    "May I buy you another coffee?" he asked in a slightly accented voice.

    Nice looking enough, and he seemed okay, but no spark on my side. Besides, I was sort of in the mood to finish my coffee and short story and head home. I really was not in a chatty mood.

    I very politely turned him down, citing needing to leave soon and to finish up my story ("Are you a writer? What do you write?" he asked), but I thanked him nonetheless. He went on his way, I quickly finished my story - I was almost done anyway - and headed home.

    It's nice to know the pheromones are working overtime. I just wish they would work on someone that I would honestly be attracted to.

    Soon. They'll work in my favor soon. I will accept nothing less from them.


    Because I know y'all have been on pins and needles, I thought I should let you know: I finally received my Stephen Lynch CDs. You can breathe a sigh of relief.

    Here's the thing: I already knew that he's a sick lil' puppy. I know that he likes to push the envelope of good taste, then leap over the envelope, stomp on it with grimy football cleats full of turf in the spikes, tear it up and use it as kindling for a big ol' questionable humor bonfire. I still thought he was funny because it's okay when absolutely nothing is sacred. Kinda like South Park.

    Then I listened to the CDs. Still fucking funny, to be sure, but damn, he's written some interesting stuff. There are a few that I don't find funny at all, but some of his songs have me laughing my ass off and thinking, "Oh man, I so should not be laughing at this. It is all levels of wrong."

    The fun part? Listening to it on my Discman. On the bus. And trying so hard not to fall off my seat. Turns out I'm very good at stifling hysterical laughter, even if tears do end up running down my cheeks and I tilt my head downward so that my hair will cover my face.

    Stupid live version of Superhero.

    wait a minute... 

    ...some folks might say - what about WriterBoy? What's going on with him?

    Nothing, really. We've talked a couple of times on the phone and exchanged a few e-mails over the last few weeks, but he's been super busy with family and being sick and, of course, work. He's a screenwriter who does script coverage for a legendary cult film director/writer/producer during the day (a film-maker whose work I've loved, BTW) and has been crazy-busy writing and re-writing a script for his boss during the evenings. He's described himself as a veal calf - more or less chained to a small space and pumped full of anti-biotics. At one point he dashed off a quick e-mail to me, letting me know that, in a fit of B-movie madness, he cried out the KHHAAAANNNN!!!! yell from Wrath of Khan. The poor fella. (Though I naturally took exception at his "B-movie" appellation, since I adore that movie.)

    I'm hoping that he'll have some free time soon. I would certainly like to further our "special friendship" if he's open to that. Or just normal friendship would be cool. Or if he's changed his mind and decided a relationship might be something to consider, I'm okay with that too.

    I guess we'll have to talk about that at some point.

    Wednesday, April 14, 2004

    adam busch is a big dork... 

    Now, before you fans of Adam Busch (Warren in Buffy the Vampire Slayer for those who don't know) get your panties in a twist, let me stress that I mean that in the best possible way. Because I, who am capable of astounding feats of dorkitude, I am intimately familiar with various kinds of dorkiness and can say, without equivocation, that Adam Busch's dorkosity is of a fabulous and fun kind.

    Tonight CuteNerdBoy and I went to another show, this time to see Common Rotation perform with The Nields at the Hotel Cafe in Hollywood. As I stood third in line (having gotten there later than anticipated, due to work and bus issues, which meant I didn't have time to stop off at my beloved Amoeba beforehand, as I had planned), waiting for the doors to open and CuteNerdBoy to arrive from the west end of the San Fernando Valley, I bonded with some of the others in line, most of whom were Buffy fans. Finally CuteNerdBoy showed up and finally they let us in.

    We were early enough that we got a good table, which was key considering that later there was not a free space in which to stand. Food and mochas were gotten (oh shit, I just remembered, I think I owe CuteNerdBoy some money, in addition to the dinner I owe him for helping me move stuff to Sarriah's last month - I think that boy's gonna get a mighty fine dinner or two from me), conversation was had with two young ladies that joined us at our table, and then the show started.

    The Nields (sisters Nerissa and Katryna) opened and were great. A lot of fun, with some very moving music, gorgeously quirky harmonies and Katryna's physical abandon to the melodies. CuteNerdBoy was already a big fan of theirs and I was familiar with some of their songs through his mix CDs, so we were fully ready for a great music listening experience when they began.

    Then Adam Busch and Eric Kufs took the stage, later to be joined by the rest of their band-mates for this tour (Prof. Ken Beck and Mike Uhler, if I remember correctly). And man oh man, were they a ton of fun. True musicians, with witty, occasionally slightly pretentious lyrics, fun poppy beats and a nice range of musical styles.

    And throughout it all Adam Busch - with his excellent voice - bopped and jumped and twitched and was a blast and a half to watch. I've never looked upon him as a sexy guy before, and I don't think I really do now, but there is something that's very appealing about a musician who is so into the music that he's not afraid of looking silly. That sort of dorkism is the best sort of dorkism and one I totally support.

    The other fellas were cool too (Eric Kufs has an incredible voice) and the last song they sang before (and as) they left the stage all four harmonized beautifully, encouraging the audience to join them. Which we did.

    Then they stood amongst the standing audience (the majority of them Buffy fans) and sang I Won't Back Down as a non-overt protest song of sorts against, most likely, the current administration (one gathered the band members are not exactly fans of Bush and Company).

    And they were gone and so were we. Again CuteNerdBoy drove me home and again (as happened last night after the BookCrossing meeting), instead of waiting for him to walk me to my door, I, without fore-thought, got out of his van, gathered my stuff, then leaned over the passenger seat and kissed him quickly but fully on the lips (though I did lean over and hug him tonight before leaving the van) before walking myself to the door. It wasn't until I entered my apartment that I realized what I had done. I put it to the wine I had during dinner last night, but I certainly can't say that about tonight, considering all I had was a mocha and some water.

    I have no idea where this new parting came from. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I hope that it doesn't totally replace the big hugs of yore, but considering I can still feel his soft lips on mine - well, there are positives and negatives.

    Well, we'll see what happens the next time we see each other, whenever that may be. Hopefully I didn't make him uncomfortable. I hate making my friends uncomfortable because I'm being a dork of the odd kind.

    why, g-d, why? 

    I'm currently on interminable hold with one of our freight carriers, trying to track down a shipment that's gone awry. The hold music? A constant loop of Funky Town.

    For this I stopped playing my Mix CD #6?



    Chris Naze gives us something to think about when shopping at Wal-Mart.

    I've never liked Wal-Mart because of their horrible business practices and the way they devalue their employees. Due to circumstances I have been in three Wal-Marts in my life: Simi Valley, CA; Tucson, AZ; Gulf Shores, AL. Every single one has given my the heebie jeebies. And the only time I ever bought something from them I ended up giving it to my mom.

    I think I'll stick with Target.

    Monday, April 12, 2004

    after-easter thoughts... 

    Actually, just a link to point y'all to John and his Easter thoughts. As I wrote in his comments:
    As usual, John, you have managed to pretty much encapsulate my own thoughts and present them in a manner far more eloquent than my own. Get out of my head! Or at least clean up a little bit while you're there, if you don't mind.

    Years ago, I used to call myself a Christian only because I thought the teachings of Jesus were valuable, but I had long since ceased to think of Jesus as Our Lord and Savior. Because I realized that many folks were confused by my self-labeling and, strictly speaking, I didn't think of Jesus as the Christ, I stopped calling myself a Christian. But I still hold that his teachings were amongst the most valuable in history.

    So yeah, Jesus rocked. Too bad so many "Christians" seem to forget what he was really all about.

    I swear, one of these days my 'blog is just going to consist of links and the phrase, "What [s]he said."

    Friday, April 09, 2004

    so very wrong... 

    There is something seriously wrong with me. I don't know how this came about and I don't know how to change it, but I have to find some way to rectify, to erase this strange new deisre that has cropped up or the very fabric of my world may become unravelled.

    G-d help me, I kinda want to see Scooby-Doo 2.

    I mean, I don't want to see it. Sarriah and I watched the first one while we stayed the weekend in Fresno a year or so ago, visiting YoungerSis and her family, and both of us were singularly unamused, though I suspect I liked it slightly more than she did, due to Matthew Lillard's masterful Shaggy impersonation, the fact that I've always liked Velma and the revealing of Scrappy Doo as the villian (I've never been a fan of the cartoon, but Scrappy Doo really caused that show to jump the shark).

    Still, let's be honest: the first Scooby Doo movie sucked huge pointy rocks. And Freddie Prinze, Jr. makes a horrible Fred.

    So why am I drawn to watching the second installment of a terrible franchise?

    Seth Green.

    See, I simply adore him. Oh, once upon a time I didn't get the Seth Green love. So many women were saying how cute he was. I thought he was nice looking enough, and talented enough in the few things I'd seen him in, but ultimately too short for my tastes.

    Then I became a Buffy fan. And in watching the show, and marvelling at the very coolness of Oz, I became a Seth Green fan. I mean, look at him. No, seriously. Look at him. Just how freakin' adorable is he? Don't you just want to bundle him up and take him home, give him some hot chocolate spiked with rum and spend all night talking to him, revelling in how marvelously cool he is? And maybe playing with that ever-changing hair of his?

    Oh, that's just me then. Huh.

    Damn you, Seth Green, for making me want to watch a movie that is guaranteed to be awful. Normally I'd say, "Damn you to hell," but I like you too gosh-darned much. Instead, you should just be damned to my living room for all of eternity.

    Hey, as messy as it can get, it's pretty close to hell. Besides, you can leave to make more movies, as long as you come back. I've got the milk for hot chocolate warming up now.

    musical interlude... 

    I give you love but you won't take it
    You flip your collar as you leave
    The bicycles on cobblestones
    The corner cafe all alone
    They whisper, they whisper

    "Don't let him take your love for granted
    Don't think that he's the only one
    There's more to love than keeping time
    More to reason than the rhyme
    So listen, just listen;

    Less than love is nothing
    And nothing is not enough
    And more than anything
    I wish you love
    Less than love is nothing
    And nothing is not enough
    And more than anything
    I wish you love, wish you love"

    'Cause there might be love around the corner
    These streets have seen it all before
    They've seen every up and down
    Every callous lucky clown
    Mistaken, and sorry now

    'Cause less than love is nothing
    And nothing is not enough
    And more than anything
    I wish you love
    Less than love is nothing
    And nothing is not enough
    And more than anything

    I wish you well I wish you might
    I wish you were alone tonight
    I wish that I could leave the past behind
    For once, I wish that love would last

    'Cause nothing is not enough
    and more than anything
    I wish you love.
    Less than love is nothing, less than love is nothing, less than love is nothing

    Less Than Love Is Nothing by Jonatha Brooke (from Back In the Circus)

    Not surprising that another Jonatha Brooke song has made its way to this page. After all, I did come back from a Jonatha Brooke show a little over an hour ago, though this song was not performed. I expected to enjoy myself, and to have my heart broken by those songs of hers that are exquisitely beautiful. Correct on both counts. I rocked out in my seat when I wasn't struck motionless by the numbers that reached into my heart and managed to yank at every nerve in my body from my chest. I didn't even know that feat was possible.

    It's probably just as well that she and her band didn't play Less Than Love Is Nothing. I was stunned by songs such as Because I Told You So, Crumbs (this song brings back memories of 1997, which is when I first heard it on a mix tape, given to me by none other than CuteNerdBoy - I wish I knew what happened to that tape - it was my constant companion for quite a while), Everything I Wanted (what's that like? It's been years since I've felt that), Inconsolable (which had some incredible work by her guitarist - swooping, hesitant, timid and bold and indescribably heart-breaking - I felt had to grab hold of my fingers and hands and arms to keep from flying up and falling into the notes) and, surprisingly enough to me, God Only Knows and Fire and Rain.

    When she did a second encore, just the keyboard accompanying her lovely voice on No Net Below, I yelled my delight - the only person that did - and proceeded to turn into an emotional puddle (with a minimum of tears, oddly enough). I leapt up with every one else for the third standing ovation, then fell into my seat, finding it difficult to move. It was only the movement of the people sitting next to me, combined with CuteNerdBoy's puzzled smile, that got me back on my feet.

    Had she sung Less Than Love Is Nothing, especially with CuteNerdBoy there, I think I would have been a complete wreck. I've been given less than love - true, nearly unconditional love - for so long, thinking it's the norm. This despite having experienced such a love at least once in my life. Hearing that song at the end of Thursday, after waking up at 4am and a very busy work day and subsisting on little more than caffeine and sugar and adrenaline for most of the day and having a couple of dirty martinis during and after dinner? While sitting next to the one man since 1997 from whom I've wanted such a love, a man who can give me the unconditional love of a dear friend and nothing more?

    I would have been a marionette with her strings cut.

    All told, a fun dinner with CuteNerdBoy, as per usual (I was very silly throughout most of it and he was right there with me in most of my silliness, as per usual) and a terrific show with a fantastic singer/songwriter. As we drove back to my place after the show, I found myself nearly unable to speak. It seemed all I was capable of were little sighs and moans - nearly post-coital in nature - as I settled my head against the seat belt, floating down from the music.

    And CuteNerdBoy greeted me as I opened the door by saying I looked very pretty. A girl always likes to hear that, even if music turns her into a shredded, mewling kitten by the end of the evening.

    I think I'm ready for that safety net now.


    Wednesday, April 07, 2004

    My ears, my ears... (Part 2) 


    Tomorrow night,after a no doubt yummy and fun dinner (where has not yet been determined), CuteNerdBoy and I will be attending a 10pm show at the Knitting Factory in Hollywood. It'll be a late night, but my company is closed on Friday, so I won't really be out late on a week-night. Even if I were, I wouldn't care. Matter of fact, I didn't know about the company holiday when we agreed to check out the show, so that proves how much I don't care.

    And why don't I care? Because we're going to see Jonatha Brooke perform. I think I've mentioned more than once how very much I love her music. So I'm naturally very excited about the show. Being accompanied by CuteNerdBoy only makes sense, since he's the fella that introduced me to her music.

    Wait. Did I say, "Yea!"? What I meant to say was, "Yippee yea!"

    My ears, my ears... 

    So. I work in the showroom with this woman. She's approximately my age, very nice, intelligent, into a lot of the same things I'm into: metaphysics, good music, art, etc. We get along pretty well.


    She's obsessed with diets and eating habits. She's in the middle of changing the way she eats and she's not entirely happy with her current weight, wanting to lose about ten pounds. She looks fine to me, but I can certainly understand wanting to be at a place where one is more comfortable with one's self.

    As a result, nearly all she talks about are fat-free-this and low-carb-that and those Weight Watcher points that she has to keep track of. It's driving me nutty. Granted, it's not a far drive, but it is a drive, nonetheless.

    That sort of focus on diets and eating is exactly the sort of thing that turned me off of mentioning anything about changes that I want to make in my own life so many years ago, back when I was working at Great Western Bank (my second job and where I spent a good portion of my 20s). I worked in a department that was made up primarily of women and damned if most of them didn't sit around the breakroom talking about this diet and those calories and stay away from anything with fat! I was still a little on the big side in those days, but far thinner than I am now, and it seemed so sad - not to mention annoying - that these presumably intelligent women couldn't find anything else to talk about. I tended to avoid the breakroom, preferring to either eat out or eat at my desk. It also made me very leery about diets in general. Well, that and the statistics that came out around the same time suggesting that the majority of weight-loss diets fail in the long run ("long run" being defined as keeping the lost weight off for a minimum of five years).

    I managed to avoid that sort of obsession while at Disney, due to the lack of a breakroom (though there was a full kitchen, unlike at GW), but noticed it again at Lions Gate, where again people had a place to sit in the kitchen whilst eating.

    While there is no kitchen or breakroom at my current place of employment, the other administrator and I have our desks up against one another, with a three foot tall cube wall separating them. Which means that we can chat while working. Which also means that she frequently pipes up about what she's eating and how many points it's worth and how many she has left for the day. I'm happy that's trying to things that make her feel good about herself, but do I have to hear about it non-stop? Especially when I know full well that's she's capable of discussing far more diverse subjects.

    Ah well, I suppose I too have been guilty of holding forth on certain subjects far more than others might want to hear. But I swear she's going to drive me to eat a Big Mac one of these days...

    Tuesday, April 06, 2004

    Baby got back... 

    There are a few pluses to my current workplace: its proximity to some cool places, the lack of boring, repetitive numbers, no calling companies to demand money.

    But, like any workplace, there are a few down sides - no toasters, no sink, no kitchen, for that matter. To clean anything we have to go to the restroom. Which I don't like all that much, but it's not like I have a choice.

    However, there is one downside that I'm distinctly not fond of - windows. There are windows or glass walls everywhere. I walk down the hall - windows. I go outside - windows. It's a building with lots and lots of windows. Which means it's a building with lots and lots of reflections.

    Now, most of the time I happen to like my reflection. It's a nice one, in my humble estimation. And I like to think that I have a pretty realistic idea of what my reflection tells me. When I look in the mirror I see neither a scrawny scarecrow nor Violet Beauregarde - post blueberry. Just good ol' Rubenesque me.

    But these days, as I walk down the halls of the building, I am catching reflections of my profile far more often than I have in the past. And I am noticing something in those reflections that I can't say I've really noticed before, despite being the sort of person to check all sides in the mirror before leaving my apartment in the morning, to make sure everything is in place and looks becoming.

    Damn, I have a big ass.

    Not that I've ever thought I had a petite one, mind you. I don't think I'm that delusional. You know, big girl=big ass. And I've sort of been okay with that, because I've seen women - both big and small - entirely lacking in asses and I know that I would never want my ass to cease being generally proportional to the rest of my body.

    But I don't think I'd ever noticed my ass's shelf-like properties before. There are times I nearly stop in the halls to stare at it, wondering whether a can of Coke or a bottle of beer would sit comfortably on my protruding backside. It's not a pleasant thought.

    I know that part of it was my weight gain a couple of years ago, where more weight than I'd like rested in the southern portions of my body than I had previously been accustomed to. Age has a nasty habit of playing such tricks on poor unsuspecting girls. And I wonder if my weight loss of the last year (only ten more pounds before I'm back to where I was before the weight gain - yea!) has come mainly from other body parts (not the breasts, oh please G-d, don't take away my breasts!) than my derriere, causing its size to seem bigger than ever before.

    And yet... Men seem to like it. Over the course of the last few years, the few men with whom I have cavorted practically seemed to worship my ass, second only to (not surprisingly) my heaving bosom. I've never understood it, what with my ol' gluteus maximus being my least favorite body part. But even as recently as WriterBoy - who described my junk in the trunk as "nice and solid" - guys seem pretty happy with the appearance of said booty.

    When quizzed, one past lover said he wasn't sure, but it was probably because of proportion, that my waist to hip ratio was pleasing to men, and he definitely enjoyed the view from behind, despite having preferred svelte girls before he met me.

    So, though Dresden porcelain would probably be perfectly safe resting upon my buttocks in an earthquake with no sticky tape required, I'll continue to swing my hips and shake my money-maker as if they were the most delectable sight on earth.

    Hey, it's the only ass I have. Might as well make the most of it. Besides, there's always my bodacious cleavage and fantastic legs to help even things out.

    Monday, April 05, 2004

    A Beginning... 

    I was scared, but excited. I knew full well what was going to happen in the secluded mobile home up in Frazier Park, held no illusions that it was just going to be a friendly little weekend spent out of town. From the moment I agreed to go away with him, standing in the restaurant parking lot, his burly body pressing mine against my car, his big hands running up and down my sides, taking my chin in his strong fingers, I knew what lie in store for me, for us. And though I was incredibly nervous, I was also counting on it. I couldn't say that I loved him at that time, having been dating him for only a couple of weeks, but I knew he was just the man to usher me into an new age. I'd made out with men in the past, had gone pretty far, with him and with others, but I had never been ready before. I thought I was ready now. It was definitely time. After all, I was 23 years old.

    We put down our bags in the bedroom and he showed me around this mobile home that belonged to his mother and grandparents. I suspected that I wasn't the first woman he'd brought here, and probably wouldn't be the last, though I didn't foresee the off and on relationship we would engage in over the next 1 1/2 years. The mobile home was far more spacious on the inside than I would have guessed, the square footage easily on par with some of the homes I'd lived in before. But the bedroom gave me pause, knowing that it would be the scene of a momentous event by the end of the day, and my excitement and nervousness racheted up a few notches.

    We kissed, then he made me dinner, though these days I can't remember what it was. Afterwards we sat in the living room, Spaceballs playing in the VCR. We started to watch it, but our attentions soon turned to one another as hands caressed and tongues tasted and lips explored. All thoughts of Mel Brooks evaporated. All thoughts evaporated, period.

    My shirt gone, his face lie nestled in my breasts, his mustache lightly tickled as his mouth moved over the pale, delicate skin above my lacy bra and his hands drfited down my ass and thighs, driving my young, supple body to new heights of desire. Suddenly a voice intruded into our passionate haze. A horrible loud nasally voice.

    "Virgin alert! Virgin alert!"

    Our heads snapped up abruptly and we stared at the TV, disoriented. We realized the g-dawful sound belonged to Joan Rivers, who voiced the role of Dot Matrix in the movie we'd long forgotten about. He looked at me and I looked at him, then we burst out laughing at the unbelievable bit of timing. It was a little while before we could get our hysterical laughter under control. Once we did, we turned off the video and resumed our previous preoccupation with each other.

    Later, as we lay in bed after several hours of careful love-making, he held me tight, asked if I was all right, told me how honored he was that I chose him to give my virginity to. I told him that I was glad I chose him, happy that he treated my virginity as the gift I thought it to be, but hoped that eventually the actual intercourse part of sex would become less painful. He promised it would and also promised that he would go slowly until I was ready.

    We spent the next day and a half eating, watching videos, shopping at the local general store, hiking to a tiny waterfall with the sweetest tasting water, under which kissed and fondled, and more gentle love-making on top of and under the brightly flowered comforter on the queen-sized bed, always careful not to go too fast or too deep as my uninitiated body gradually adjusted to this new experience.

    A week or so later, as I sat on the edge of the hood of my Escort in a hidden tiny parking lot late at night and we made love yet again, for the third time after that weekend, and the pain ceased and I was overcome with pure pleasure, I knew that this whole sex thing was definitely something I'd enjoy for a long time. He looked at my face, saw my eyes widen as the realization of pleasure chased away the pain, and smiled broadly.

    "Feeling better, Carol?" he asked, almost smugly, as he continued to slowly move inside me, his fingers expertly tapping into my erogenous zones.

    Unable to speak, I bit my bottom lip to refrain from moaning loudly with delight and simply nodded.

    Sunday, April 04, 2004

    Will someone please... 

    ...tell my cat BJ (he's named after BJ Hunnicut from M*A*S*H, you delightfully dirty-minded people) that there is no need for him to dip the entire top of his head into the water of the table top fountain near my computer in order to drink from it? And that vigorously shaking his head to clear the water from his fur is not a recommended action, especially when I'm actually at the computer?

    ...tell my oldest cat Noel that, contrary to what he may think, my little buckwheat pillow is not big enough for both his big part-Maine Coon body and my not-entirely petite noggin? And while someone is at it, ask him why, after being in my care for over ten years, he's suddenly decided that sharing pillow is the thing to do?

    ...tell BJ's brother Edison that his continuing insistence of flopping down on the kitchen floor right in front of my barely shuffling feet every morning is going to get one or both of us killed when I either step on him or trip over him and hit my head on the corner of the stove?

    ...tell Sarriah how much I love to read this sort of realization? That's okay, I'll tell her myself.

    ...tell the woman I saw in the building in which I work that, despite her constant pushing and pulling of that glass door, it is still not going to open, as she might have deduced had she read the huge "Out of Order" sign that happened to be at her eye level? And that looking at the door in disbelief, as if she could not believe its temerity to not open for her, is not going to make the door realize the error of its ways and suddenly swing wide for her?

    ...tell George W. Bush that he is a big idiot and liar and should just remove himself from office immediately? Oh yeah, people already have told him that. Well, just tell him again. Maybe this time it'll stick.

    ...tell me how this entry evolved from marginally cute cat stories to railing against the hopefully soon-to-be-ex-UnPresident? 'Cause I don't have a clue. Except that it's always fun to rail against Bush - fun for the whole family! Go ahead, give it a try!

    Thursday, April 01, 2004

    Wordy Passion... 

    A sprinkling of stars dusted the nearly black city skyscape as I walked into the shop that lay behind stunningly muralled wall. Though technically too big to be a shop, its cozy atmosphere, with the towering walls of yellowing books and the smiling, helpful owners of varying ages bespoke a genuine love of the written word that was so different from other bookstores I'd walked into over the years. Thereby turning it, in my mind, into a used bookshop of old.

    The vaguely musty scent of aging pages was more remembered than experienced, due to the cold clogging up my sinuses, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. Though I had to admit I was somewhat grateful for my impaired sense of smell as I spied the long-haired, fully bearded fellow behind the counter tenderly apply glue to the binding on a time-browned tome.

    I strolled purposefully amongst the stacks, searching for a specific book. My hunt was in vain, but it was still a pleasing visit as I passed the tall gentleman leaning over to pet one of the shop's cats, sprawled oh so casually on the well-worn sofa, made comfortable with much use but still retaining a certain bouncy support. My lips quirked upwards as my eyes quickly glanced at the newspaper articles taped to the shelving. Some corners curled inward, the faintly ochre tint testifying to their years spent adorning the wooden sides. All were literary in nature, many of them obituaries for authors long gone. Seeing the obituaries saddened me, but their presence gave further evidence as to the passion the owners had for the product lining the walls and shelves. Once again I mentally kicked myself for the many times I passed the shop on the way home over the years with barely a moment spent inside, at least until recently.

    I had to head home, but on my way out, I spied a thick book sitting on the "$2 or Under" table near the front door. Filled with vampire short stories, I thought it would be perfect for Sarriah, to help her with the research for her vampire script, not to mention helping to feed that addiction of hers that I share: the love of most things vampire-related. Besides, how could one go wrong for only $2?

    I tucked the book under my arm, shelled out $2.17, then headed home for the evening. Later, as I walked the few blocks from my bus stop to my home, the 600+ page vampire volume feeling strangely light in my hand, my mind was filled with images and words. Words crammed in my head, the purely mental yet almost physical sensation of letters and punctuation spilling out of my ears and eyes thrilled me and energized me, quickening my steps as I yearned to sit in front of my computer and type, type, type as fast as my fingers could follow my thoughts. Type until my nails, my fingerprints wore away, until cramping took over my abused muscles, curling my digits into pseudo-arthritic claws.

    G-d, how I love books.

    I'm honored... 

    As the bearer of 10+ CDs on a daily basis, I have been elected (by one person) to be the showroom DJ.

    Now, if I had my druthers, I'd be playing music all day long here. But one is never sure about office protocol in these situations, so I don't presume to slide the little silvery discs into the CD-ROM and listen to my heart's content. However, I've been told that, as long as the music is mellow and doesn't interfere with phone calls, I should be okay with even the big boss.

    So now, at the other administrator's request, Loreena McKennitt is playing over the little speakers, all lovely and mellow and Irish. Though I can't help but wonder if the current song, a ten minute lyrical beauty about murder and suicide and possible rape is really appropriate for a public showroom, even if we do get few walk-ins.

    I'm thinking playing Stephen Lynch would probably not be a good idea.

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    Carol/Female/36-40. Lives in United States/California/Los Angeles/San Fernando Valley, speaks English. Spends 40% of daytime online. Uses a Normal (56k) connection.
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