vicar in a tutu

why are the smiths synonymous with being emo? i don't get it. their songs are witty, ironic & charming, if not enchanting.
a lyrical antipasto, for you to judge:
*sweetness i was only joking when i said i'd like to smash every tooth in your head.

*girlfriend in a coma, i know...i know - it's really serious... there were times when i could have murdered her...(but you know, I would hate anything to happen to her).

*and if a double-decker bus crashes into us-to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.
and if a ten-ton truck kills the both of us to die by your side-well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine.

********************************PSA**********************************

i mean, if that doesn't make you giggle, i can't help you. go buy a hello kitty backpack to stuff all your conformist ideas of happiness in.

yuppy hipster f*ck

though every fiber of my being is in a perpetual state of nausea over this...i joined facebook-i was sucker punched into by polenta GB (who i may hate later because of it).i resisted for so long because i can't deal with the pressure of having all these people up in my shit. i will try it out for a week or two, to see if it sticks. caveat & achtung-i don't think it will. i found out via the ny times how to delete my account-so i DO have a safety net if i hate it like i think i will.

christopher, don't lose faith in me. think of it as a social experiment. let's see how the other half lives.

(sigh)-i feel like i just sold my soul for thirty shekels.

this ain't a scene, it's an arms race

you walk down the street, and you are completely alone.
everyone is somewhere else.

listening to music-headphones jammed deep into the holes in the sides of their heads...trying desperately to create the soundtrack of their lives...going live in a constant, continuous music video.
texting-little fingers madly dancing across the latest it-device, reading messages-just to look busy, talking on the phone...

same thing happens at dinners, in bars, at cafes all over this economically nasty country-maybe the world. and it's depressing. no one looks you in the eyes anymore. no one listens to the tail-end of conversations-they are already documenting the past thing, or catching up to the current thing, or chasing the future thing.

no one just is.

i find myself becoming the multi-media third reich. not allowing phones at the table, et al-which makes me feel simultaneously old & out-of-touch. but its really starting to get on my fucking nerves. hey, i'm not judging as to how things got to this point-because, we all know i was one of the first to be guilty of indulging in being everywhere at once. but its getting out of hand. yes, ok, so we know now we can talk to anyone, anytime, and know exactly when everything on the entire bloated planet is occuring.

*noted.

now it's time to live in the present. start with a minute each day where you aren't at your computer, on your phone, or facebooking. ok? see what happens when you pick your eyes up from your ratty screens & you see what is going on in real time all around you. all you have is this moment. there are no ctrl+z edit undo's. live it, or lose it.

& yes, i feel preachy & self-righteous. but mostly just sad-and not endearingly so. sad that i am out on the street all alone.

(ps, if one more couple-a-holdin-hands waltzes past my window, shit is going down. what is this? cuddly-pairs-day? ctrl+alt+del, thanks)

sláinte gaelach

a toast, to all of you, from me.

"here's to cheating, stealing, fighting & drinking.

if you cheat, may you cheat death.
if you steal, may you steal the heart of the one you love.
if you fight, may you fight for a brother
& if you drink, may you drink with me."

happy green beer, et al. get rowdy.

all hail the glory of her majesty....

drum roll please..........
WELCOME HOME JENIVIE OVEDA ISGITT.

(& yes, i am pretending this is us...just go with it)

your friends, romans & countrymen could not be happy-and yes, i speak for everyone.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

punchdrunk lovesick singalong

christopher, christopher, christopher (sing in a style a la "maria" in west side story, and always say it thrice. everything good should be said or done thrice).

my nbf.

(for those of new to the scene, nbf= "new best friend"...let's keep up with our acronyms people. republicanism is not a reason to allow yourself to become prematurely old & lose touch with today's youth)
it was love-at-first-sight...really...to use the most over-exhausted cliche in the english language. i can't help it. wait, let's be a little more insightful. it was actually love-at-first-backhanded-mumbled-comment. i saw something that was disturbing or just plain wrong (think "denim tuxedo" or "gold crosses riding the waves of some fat greek guy's chest hair"...puke) & i said something to myself that falls in the "unkind & mean" department (look, we are way more US weekly than the washington post) pointing out these obvious errors in judgement. and from my right, i heard a similar under-the-breath comment.

& that special, irreplaceable someone whispering inhumane things? christopher. (but christopher, they are people, too!!!)

we knew this was a forever kind of magic when other eccentricities were made self-evident. the logophilia (its contagious). the verbosity (i mean, honestly-why use 3 words when 300 is so much better? brevity is not, dear reader, the soul of wit. trust.) punchdrunk lovesick singalongs. captain obvious observations & irrational fears. this list doesn't even begin to capture the je ne sais qua of our meeting. kinetic kismet.

own it.
(picture is my emo present to you, crf)

************************************************************************************ something to revisit after we have had additional time to reflect.
a coffee table book
subject: cataloguing the quantity & variety of san francisco denim offenses-including but not limited to: excessive tightness (enhancing all kinds of lumpy horrors), zipper length (under no circumstances should this exceed 7-possibly 8"), skinny jeans on men (yes, i will not let this go, it offends me on every level), etc. this could be a real $-maker.

robots & republicans

i am molly the maneater.
my assault on the world begins NOW.

it looks like that is what the nation wants to choose between come november. the droid & the white guy. at least the robot is a female version. progress? we shall see, gentle reader.

i'm still rooting for the n00b. he makes me smile the wide-eyed grin of optimism. i even contributed to the campaign. shhhhh. my republican mother is likely to fly across the fiber optic ocean & gut me like a fish. let's just keep this between you & i.

i got called a traitor today by a high school person. hard to use the word friend. what is the statute of limitations of friendships? if you were friends during those tender, adolescent, ugly-duckling years, don't talk for a decade, and then pick up where you left off (well, not really...where you left off was asking your parents for permission, paying for health insurance was a test question-not something that came out of your paycheck, and drinking meant refilling your dad's marked-where-i-last-drunk-to liquor bottles with water to disguise the missing drams that went straight down your throat, up to your head, back down to your stomach, and then right back up again, hopefully outside where you could cover over it with wood chips or hay.) so no, not right where you left off, but let's say you converse (retro-runners are the best...i have a blue & orange pair, love 'em so much they are really skeevy looking & stink now. which is how you show love to kicks.)

do you call this person a friend?

for a DECADE, a third of your existence you have not been in contact. i find it a stretch. because really, when it all comes down to it, you are trying to be friends, but you can't really ever go back. you won't ever be spending new year's eve together parked in a toyota corolla on grand parkway, drinking mad dog 20/20 you got a migrant worker to buy for you at the local stop-n-rob, smoking swisher sweets you bought @ randall's. because at 30, this would be incredibly tragic.

but at 18, well, it was...well maybe it was sad & tragic then too, but in a entirely different genre.

you can't go back & that is SO GOOD-hence my quick & sure elation at being called a benedict arnold to the state & community of my birth. that is maybe the best part. you can wax nostalgic-listen to journey, drink boone's & feel insecure about what you're wearing if it feels right. but otherwise, great to be able to start over.