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.

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.)

you are so last summer

due to a recent onset of a wicked cold/flu-ish situation, i have this scratchy, sexy lounge singer voice. i want to keep it. i have clasped my greedy little hands around it's fraile existence, crushing it like lenny in of mice & men...screaming songs in the car so as to ensure at least a few more hours of precious sultry, husky bette-davis-with-a-ineffable-hat-&-matching-handbag voice.

i like the show gossip girl.

there.
i said it.

the cattiness, the money, the ridiculous stereotypes. teenagers that hang out at the plaza & order martinis AT THE BAR (ludicruous...these girls have "not-of-age" stamped on their freshly-facialed-faces & trainer bras.) the mothers are all over-the-top bourgie (short for bourgeois...not sure on that abbreviation) assholes, the dads of 2 varieties: superdad or too-rich-&-important-"mysonmustgetintodartmouth" types. classic. there is the "nerdy-yet-strangely-attractive-&-misunderstood-guy", his kid sister (golly gee, the fun times these two loveable characters have together), the leggy blonde, the bitchy brunette, the token asian...it's just the most a delightful group of kids...growing up in the big apple.

(ted, i don't want to hear any shit. you eat pork rinds.)

songs for the heartstrings - strung - out

here you go-just read the names of these bands &/or songs & feel better. i did.

*pretty girls make graves
*a good man is easy to kill
*popular mechanics for lovers
*i'm always the one who calls
*smile! no one cares how you feel
*i love you, but i've chosen darkness
*this photograph is proof (i know you know)
*sweet sweet heartkiller
*when they really get to know you, they will run