let's pretend we're bunny rabbits

THE MAGNETIC FIELDS.

that's right ladies & worms.
& the show's tonight & i am as giddy as this kid.
seriously-my face is pretty much frozen in that exact position...FIVE HOURS TO GO.
giddyup.

fake plastic trees

my fake plastic love.
i cant help the feeling
i could blow through the ceiling
if i just turn and run
and it wears me out, it wears me out...

i couldn't possibly exhaust this song. ever.

isn't it funny how you can neglect some of your favorite songs because you have liked them forever, you take them for granted? & then one mid-60's day in the city you fall into them on accident or on a whim...music on shuffle, and it's like meeting an old friend? i love that. these moments seem to tie the old you that first listened to the music to the you now-the one that has heard the song in a hundred different situations-some memorable, others completely forgettable. it's like a moving picture, this listening to a song now that impacted you then.

random snippets gleamed from the-ever-with-me-notebook. i have no idea why i wrote these things, but they seem especially poignant tonight, as i am wallowing in that kind of mood...you know the one...a little chilly, slight breeze, headlights seen in the reflection of your window, remarkably relevant radiohead is your ambient noise (big piano chords & thom yorke's pained voice are the only songs allowed on this mood's soundtrack.)

i write phrases down in my minibook when something i hear strikes me-a song lyric, a stranger on a bus, something i said...so who knows & who wants to guess...i have absolutely no recollection of what should be attributed to whom. let your imagination get the better of you. get lost inside your own head. (step one-put the following songs in a playlist-no surprises, the tourist, karma police, fake plastic trees, romeo & juliet and put the list on repeat. until the sinking feeling goes away. it will. just takes time.)

*i fall so hard inside the idea of you.

*you're not a panda.

*i'll handle monty.

*yes ma'am, how many frequent flyer miles would it take to send someone on a nonstop flight to hell?

*prefers unhappy endings

*put fortunes in people's pockets

*a verbis ad verbera (from words to blows)

*free yourself of the expectation (that sounds str8 out of a tony robbins seminar...wow)

*it's got voodoo in it

*"i wanna be the girl" "you are the girl, that's why we're having this very confusing conversation."

*where i've been & where i am is the show

*resevoir passion

we're computerizing & we just don't need you anymore

information is like porn.

it wasn't when i was paying for it-college was forced learning & basically all data was processed & then promptly tossed in the nearest bin (& yes, i am english today). but now...today, this exact moment, i can't get enough.

i am an addict.

i need help. wikipedia must be removed from all internet browers. i can hardly get through a conversation with someone, let alone read a single article without running to find out more.

does this sound familiar?

you are chatting up a nice lad, discussing politics, origami, or possibly the worst show in existenence, rock of love (& its sequel) when something is called into question. "...what was that joke about hillary in the onion?...what was urban legend about paper cranes curing cancer?...does bret michaels actually have hair under those creepy bandanas?..."

& its like the conversation, Any Conversation, is temporarily paused until the answers are found. it's as if you can't form words, the whole driving force behind talking is freeze-framed. you feel an itch. you can't let it go. without the answers to your questions, you couldn't possibly continue discussing well, anything. let's imagine the bloke you are chewing the fat with is not hooked on the same info-drug you are. he dismisses the question almost as quickly as it falls out of his fat mouth. you reach for your phone/computer/data-crack-pipe-of-preference & he tells you its "no big deal"...that you can "look it up later."
you start to hate him. a consumning, vehement loathing rolls across your retinas like a full-bodied san francisco fog. you can hardly see him anymore. this cretin. this cow that stands between you & the answers. this imbesol. you want his face to melt right off to expose what is obviously his lack of any brain matter whatsoever.
you start to sweat. if you are me, you scribble down the questions to remind you as soon as you escape the clutches of this toady, unibrowed caveman.

information.
i can't get enough.

the speed at which you can get immediate, as-fast-as-your-connection-speed-allows answers to anything is making me hopelessly ADD. when i read an article, if there is any kind of link, i click on it faster than those big-hair ladies used to smack the whammies on press your luck. i then wander off to a link in that article & la la la...and within a pocketful of minutes am utterly disoriented & have no idea where the hunt for the elusive great white rabbit began.

i started writing this with the fervor of a buffalo hunter, full of piss & vinegar & mollyesque opinions, and then my attention deficit kicked in vis a vis The Debates. most uncomfortable bit of television, fellow americans (for my foreign readers, just be happy we are getting a new president & try to pleasantly ignore the current silliness.)

lost my train of thought...again. i feel like any locomotion of ideas i am focused on gets rattled & meanders into cloud town. is this thing on? hello? am i in harrison bergeron? hello?

(because i am caring, unequivocally giving blogger, i have obviously provided very handy click-on links to answers to all queries posed above, as well as links to any references of really anything discussed herein. my gift to you. you're welcome.)

impervious to absolutes.

6 o'clock pm, saturday, the 23rd of february.

my fingers are mildly frost-bitten & my apartment windows are about to shatter into a thousand chards of glass. right in my face.

there is a tree dancing a saucy lambada (the forbidden dance) directly behind this open notebook computer. i can see the movement using my nifty & quite perceptive peripheral vision. the leaves appear to be holding hands & shimmying across the television-like screen of a single un-insulated windowpane.

tonight has full moon written all over it. the malevolent, rainbearer clouds drip ominously from the sky. the red aura that encircles every brakelight, the fuzzy tractor beams of headlights, looking out at the city from the rain-streaked windows inside my apartment...people dressed like mongolian herdsman or yetis (hoodies, random pieces of clothing thrown together to block out the driveling drizzle that is san-francisco-"rain", the rainboots & turned-inside-out-umbrellas that look like weapons of mass destruction...all thrown together haphazardly into a maddening milieu of what more posh people might call the "homeless aesthetic"-making this nomad fashion catastrophe sound even charming & philanthropic.)

this weather does not make me want to conquer the most miniscule of tasks-nothing can motivate. not even aaron copeland's "rodeo"-which at any other time can inspire me to do even the most mundane chore...when i listen to this song at any other time, i feel capable of lifting a bus in the air, whirling it around & tossing it effortlessly out of harm's way. i can always count on "fanfare for the common man" to pull my ass out of whatever self-deprecating state i have wandered into & Take Over the World.

but copeland is no match against this full moon weather situation.

so instead, i will sit inside, staring...half grimacing at the thought of ever having to leave & "pen" madly away on a story. any story. i just need that first line. that killer intro-clause to get me off & running on some tirade or another (it doesn't matter which).

i got it.

"it was a dark and stormy night..."

(thank you, charlie brown)

night-night buttercups.

gun moll

a gun moll.

wikipedia definition:
"A gun moll was the female companion of an American gangster of the 1920s and 30s. Moll, from Molly a diminutive of Mary, was a euphemism for whore or prostitute. These women for the most part were unremarkable except for their association with some of the most notorious killers of the times and organized crime mobsters. . The word "gun moll" can also mean a female companion of a robber or terrorist, and not only just a gangster."

wow. information is fun.

the stream of consciousness that got me to this random sliver of information?

trying to name a new design family...and wanted maybe a french theme...that wasn't working, so i thought of alliterations i like...came across femme fatale, starting looking for lists of them...read a page or 2 on the mata hari (fascinating) & then trolled around for ages looking at manga lists & film noir lists...and on one of these random pages i ran across "gun moll". hint-when your name is molly, and has been for respectively 28+ years, you instantly pick up anything that looks like your name & click on it. it is an instinct-not to be repressed.

and i found out my name is shortened to mean hooker.

i heart the internet.

behavior makes belief?

is it just a simple matter of matter over mind? is that all it takes? can you force your mind to ascribe to something by going through the motions like you already believed "x" thing? i mean, does "build it & they will come" really work when kevin costner & james earl jones are nowhere to be found?

let's give the audience an example of when this technique could prove useful (though the author has zero proof that this works, but hopes that it works, which in this case will have to be enough).

messy break-up? found your partner f*ing around? is the other person "just not that into you"? is your heart broken & shattered into unrecognizable pieces on a dirty sidewalk in detroit? do you find yourself unable to move past the pain? all you have to do is ACT as if you are over it-through your actions...meaning, you go about your day AS IF you are not desperately melancholy (in a style reminscent of vincent van gogh cutting off his ear, whilst listening to the smiths) & EVENTUALLY your brain will catch up with your body. now, i am in no way advocating sluting around-that's not exactly what i mean by acting as if...more like go about the day-to-day stuff as you did before you were sad (but without mr. or ms. x).

another example that could bring this one home (yes, this is the 2nd lofty attempt to use sports metaphors in writing...my hands tremble with nausea.) are you depressed (ok, disclaimer-if you are really depressed, like in a clinical way-go to a psychiatrist & get some medicine, i mean in a "it's been a week, and i hate myself & i'm bored with my life"...)-you go about the day PRETENDING by your actions that you are totally fine...and eventually you WILL BE fine. some call this the power of visualization. i don't. as i am not asking you to repeat some chant to yourself, using your rotted brain to imagine a better place for haggard body. no, no, no. (always group repetitive words in odd numbers, it's more aesthetically pleasing for the reader-a fun fact brought to you direct from "writing wranglers", local chapter 94133). no "envisioning" propaganda here. i'm saying actually go through the motions of not being where you are, and after some time has past, your mind/thoughts/blah blah blah will join the club.

hey, can't hurt.

solipsism & me

for those unfortunate to not be in the know regarding this philosophy: basic summary - "nothing exists outside my own mind"

they say infants are solipsists @ birth. all infants. as they cannot yet identify anything outside their own mind

solpsism syndrome? (of course)...when one feels that everything is a dream & not real

isn't the state where everything is imaginary where you want to be? sometimes reality is nothing to write home about, and hardly worth waking up for

i have nothing else to say, today, life's a play, pimping the night away, hiding from the fray..i'm still really bad at this (freestylin', not life, geesh. i am heavily medicated to prevent jumping from cliffs-no need to worry, gentle reader)

melodic mania

while perhaps not the most aesthetically handsome band in the world, still fun. gotta love that supernatural something...for regular guys to stand up on stage & rock their shit (& be good at it) & have people begging for more-more dorky dance moves, more hips gyrating...just more of everything. offstage? these guys look like the trolls that work in the dmv, do your taxes, or ask for money in the haight outside of amoeba music.

onstage? magic.

best part of the night? the symmetry of seeing this old crackhead lady outside of the gold dust before we went to the show (waiting for ken, of course) - she tried to sell me a dolphin necklace made out of concrete or shells or something...and then having her reappear at the end of the night when we are getting into a cab...& ken telling her he wouldn't give her money because she was going to buy "crack rock with it".

i love balance in the weird sphere-makes it seem like there is a rhyme (though clearly no reason) to the ambiguity of the everyday.

(that sounded wise-don't be concerned, it wasn't).

the bleeding heart show

great times, shitty picture.

the standard people were there...the group in front that knew every word to every song (tragic) pumping their teenbeat fists in the air to every smack of the bass drum (again, no other word but tragic)...pre-pubescent man/boy-mustaches & dried up old dudes...the groupie, whose whole existence is for this one moment-being with the band that defines their identity...

the couples-girl in front, guy in back, his arms wrapped around her while they collectively close their eyes & sway to the melody (at a rock concert, this can prove especially lame-go to sarah mclachlan, tools, or stay @ home & watch the jt special on hbo...geesh)

bearded guys from oregon, web 2.0 posse, the button-ups, aka "oxfords" (NOT gay, they are quick to inform you), angry lesbians, the assailants-with-a-heart (& a tattoo to prove it)...

the whole gang.