Thursday, December 29, 2005

The Big Year-End Crap Up

You Take the Good. You Take the Bad. You Take Them Both. And There You Have: The Craps of Life—

The Good:

1. The highlight of the year definitely came in the latter third, when I started –and here’s the kicker, kids – finished the 2005 Portland Marathon. I spent a little (ok, a lot ) of time wondering why I didn’t lose more weight in my training; why I couldn’t seem to shave any time off my slowpoke mile pace; why I looked like a jackass in my running clothes instead of a badass like all the rest of the folks on the road; why why why. Fuck that. Fuck that twice. I ran a fucking marathon this year. I’ll stop cursing soon, kids, but first I am going to break my arm patting myself on the back.
2. I quit smoking on July 26, and despite some major jonesin’ I haven’t gone back to my tobacco crutches. Dudes, there are a lot of things I failed to do this year. And as any smoker (or any addict, for that matter) will tell you, you never finish the process of quitting. You can only count the days as they go by, and hope for more clean ones. It’s not like breathing or something. I’m pretty sure that I’ll wake up tomorrow and take a damned breath – I can’t be quite as sure that I won’t wake up tomorrow and want a cigarette so badly that I break down and have one. But if the past 5 months is any indication, chances are good that I will be able to resist the urge.
3. I got a car. True, it’s a temperamental gas bag with one poorly-connected, tinny speaker and a busted right front axle, but it got me around nicely this year. After giving away my beloved Volvo, Boris, before leaving Minneapolis, I thought I’d never have a car again. There were always other , more immediate bills to pay; a car note seemed like a luxury I’d have to put off for awhile. But then my pastor loaned me the Brown Bomber, and apart from the ridiculous insurance payments, the exorbitant gas prices I suffer because of the wack mileage I get, the new alternator last month and the new right front axle this month – it’s been practically free!

To be continued...


Hey, y'all.

Christmas is over, the New Year is almost here, and it's time for what may be my last post of 2005. For your sakes -- as well as for posterity, which might mark this as the most half-assed "year end wrap up" post ever -- I sincerely hope, however, that it is not. But should this already long-winded missive signal our last e-convo this year, I want to say one thing: I couldn't have done it without you. I wouldn't have done it without you. No, seriously -- were it not for ZDB laying the whole "you inspired me to update my damn blog!"* and then Broccoli-Broccolay being all "I'm starting a blog, too, jackass!" and the Sjostrands popping up to offer me the ol' Swedish meatballs in return for just keeping my blog going ...well, kids, you'll see that were it not for the affection you dorklies offer, free of charge, I just wouldn't bother.

At the moment, I'm updating this here bloglette from my job. I'd tell you where that is, and talk about all the Grade-A L*O*S*E*R*S who contaminate my air space with their germy germs, but I hear from the various news magazine shows that people are getting fired for that crap these days. I also hear that a) winter travel can be dangerous, so allow for extra time on the roadways; oh, and you might want to get to the airport early. Also, it's cold! Back to you in the studio, Brenda! b) Dating in the workplace is rarely a good idea (mainly because you work with a bunch of throwbacks, but whatever); c) Check your prostate regularly, men. The life you save may be your own.

So, as I prepare to jump, feet first, into 2006, I just want to say "thanks" to everyone who gave a shit this year. Not just for me, but for anyone or anything that meant something to you. That may seem corny and hackneyed to you sad sack of cynical snobs, but if alliteration has taught me one thing, it's this: I'm getting too damned old to give a crap what people think anymore. I turned 31, dorklies! You think I give a fuck whether you like me? You're reading my blog, dammit! Kiss my ass! No, you kiss my ass!

Next: The Big 2005 Year-End Crap-Up! Find Out What I Think About All The Crap That Happened This Year, and Whether I Managed To Adhere to My Own Dictum, "No More Jive in 2005!" And Find Out the Winning Motto For the Coming Year!

The Finalists:
Let's Not Be Dicks in 2006
Don't Get Sick in 2006
Eating Twix Through 2006

*which is weird, because he updates his blog about a hundred times more often than I do. Always gotta show someone up, don't you, Bruns?!

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Save a Horse. Ride a Cowboy.

My friend, Todd, is going to breed miniature horses one day. At the moment, however, he is making himself happy with some stinky ass chickens and a tricked-out tractor that he occasionally lets me drive. I actually don't know Todd as well as I know his wife, Teri , and I don't know either one of them as well as I would like to. And I think you know what I mean, eh? Eh? Ha ha HA!

Ok, what's funniest about that is wondering which of the two of them will read this post first, and which will call the other and be like, "dude, I told you she wasn't right."

Well, both of you can put your shirts back on, because I don't want to make my money that way... anymore.

Anyway, this post is a shout out to the most cracked up farmers I know. Don't think I don't remember how you saved me when I needed a place to stay. And don't think I won't show up on your doorstep again the next time I need saving/ am hungry for Doritos.

Saturday, December 17, 2005

Brokedown Palace

If it seems like I update my corner of the blog-o-verse a) shiftily, b) sporadically, c) in staccato bursts, I apologize. I mean, that is an accurate assessment. Nevertheless, I apologize. Not long ago, my friend Speckles Bruns blew some smoke up my ass about how I had inspired him to recommit to his own blogging duties. I think we all know what he was saying was, "You disgust me." To Speckles, as to the rest of you gracious lords and ladies, I offer my sincere apologies. Fact is, even though I vowed some time ago to cut with the solipsism and make with the creative non-fiction, I have found myself notably bereft of either the energy or the wit necessary to produce anything other than the half-assed "Adams' Updates" I've been dropping on you like so many bird turds.

Bird the ones decorating my '87 Mazda 323 -- the car that just blew/bust/abandoned/magicked away its suspension system, so that for the second time in a month, I'm back on foot patrol. Or, as Fergus used to say, "taking the heel-toe express." As you can probably surmise, this was an absolutely stellar time for this to happen: less than two weeks before Christmas, with about 90% of my shopping left to do, and about 90% of my money gone.

What shopping, I hear you ask? We'll get back to that in a minute.

So anyway, I've been paying a few social calls at my ol' stomping grounds, ZLB Plasma -- and not even to catch a few bills for gas money or food or rent, like I normally do. This time, I'm getting sucked dry so that I can afford to mail everyone's gifts off this year. So everybody better like the small tokens of friendship and love that I literally gave my blood for.

I was back at ZLB this morning (having borrowed Bern's car to make the trek), where I discovered to my delight that some ironical soul was playing Queen of the Damned (fairly hackneyed vampire flick) to the throngs of sad souls who'd come to voluntarily leave a liter or two of Portland's Finest with the world-weary "tappers" who, let's face it, are just doing their jobs. Is it their fault that that the company they work for has just slashed five bucks off the "donation" fee? I mean, I'm sure they're not seeing any extra dough. They're treading water, just like the rest of us, because the folks behind the folks in the lab coats know that, if I'm desperate enough to let you drain my blood and fill me with saline while I watch The Sixth Sense or Catwoman or X-Men or Die Another Day, I'm probably just desperate enough to let you get away with giving me 20 bucks instead of 25, the way you used to.

A friend of mine has just started using plasma donation as a way to make grocery money, even though I tried to talk him out of it. Where he lives, it's mostly female college students who go in for "the draw." The citizenry at the Hostile Hostel where I go is about 75-90% male, however, and while none of them is too savory, none looks completely down and out. There was a raucous discussion in the 2nd stage waiting room this morning about the way that plasma center owners must be raking it in, but everyone agreed that they couldn't be making nearly as much money as the payday advance or check-cashing people. We all nodded, because we all knew about those loans. Of course we did: if you're desperate enough to lie still for an hour or two while a couple feet of tubing whisk your blood away and return it to you, devoid of plasma, all the time praying that you get lucky in the weekly drawing and get an extra five bucks -- well, then you're probably desperate enough to promise to pay 500% interest on a hundred dollar loan.

Some tweaker leaned over to another guy in the waiting room and said that he hoped his pulse was slow enough for him to pass the medical tests today -- "yesterday, that bitch told me to leave. Oh well," he continued, "I just got a prescription for Percoset." He didn't explain how or where. "I'll take the money from today, go get the Percocet, take it back to my 'hood and sell it. I'll clear 45 bucks!"

That's the level of dreaming that goes on a plasma center. That's as far as your planning can take you. That's as far as you can take it. 45 bucks. It beats the 20-used-to-be-25 bucks you'll get for that hour or two on the beds, no doubt about it. When you break it down, you'll probably be earning about 10 bucks an hour for your pains. More than you make at your shitty job, anyway. Right?

I scored the win with the movie choice today, though. After narrowly escaping having to sit through My Big Fat Greek Wedding, some awesome soul slipped in Star Trek: First Contact. That's the one with the Borg Queen.

Resistance is futile, kids. Trust me on this one.

What Child is This?

I suspect you've already seen this fantastic photo several times already this holiday season, my dorklies, but if you haven't I want to let this young girl's desperate dissatisfaction wash over you like the Balm of Gilead. She's just doing what we all want to do: make a break for it.

Of course, what truly makes this photo is the juxtaposition of her expression with her brother's.

That's Christmas spirit you just can't buy, friends. You can only find that kind of holiday hysteria at the bottom of a bottle or twisted up in the dollar store tinsel of a miniature, pre-lit tree.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Um, Excuse Me...

thanks to Esme at the OTZ for helping me to say what I wanted to say

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Got To Getcha

Hey, y'all. I know it's been a minute since we spoke, but you know I got stuff going on, right? Serious stuff. Important stuff. Christmas stuff. Here's the deal, kids: mama is broke as a joke for another year, and while I feel less anxious and self-recriminatory about it this year than I have in years past, I nevertheless worry about how I will show the people in my life that I care about them. Now, I do not have a husband or children to buy for, and that's a relief. But Doug is expecting something -- I mean, in addition to my sweet a$$ -- and I don't want to disappoint.

Actually, now that I think about it, I'm not entirely sure that Doug is expecting something. That cat is so simple and sweet...he's probably just hoping for another year where he gets to touch boobies. Jeez. That fool makes me smile.

Anyway, I'm going to Powell's to try to score him a nice Indian food cookbook. He's insane about learning how to cook Indian food, so he'll trip off that. For Julie, I'm getting..HA! I'm not telling, 'cause I know that heffa reads this blog. I have ZERO idea what I'm getting Fergus and Paul, which is worrying. I love them both so much, and I would love to get them something that says "I'm your sophisticated, stylish, no-well-vodka straight lady friend! Enjoy this [insert awesome gift idea here]!" And they would unwrap the artfully decorated box and gasp in astonishment and then laugh and say "That saucy bitch!" and all would be well in this rather cliche world. I'm getting my parents some framed photos of Portland in the fall that I took and still need to have made into, got no clue what to get my brother and his girlfriend, either. Have I mentioned yet how much I like Gracie, my brother's girlfriend? She is perfect for him. They are the cutest couple I have ever seen. I want to smack those two kids just to rough up their pretty asses!

Anyway, I turn 31 this year -- in exactly 3 weeks, in fact -- and I'm hoping for a successful end to this dissertation drama and the money to buy myself some glasses. That's pretty much it. So if you can help me out with either of those things, get in touch, a'ight?

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Oracion de Bernadetta van Dycia

Glorioso Apostol, San Judas siervo fiel y amigo de Jesus, ruega por mi, pues me encuentro desesperado en esta hora de gran necesidad. Socorrame visible y prontamente te premeto bendito San Judas recordar siempre este gran favor. Nunca dejare de honrarte como mi mas especial y poderoso protector, Amen.

La Vie en Noir

How was your Thanksgiving, dorklies? Mine was fucking fantastic. My roommate was out of town -- that wasn't why it was good, by the way; I'm just setting the stage -- and I just sort of...napped and watched movies and ate when I felt like it. I had invited a friend over to hang out, but she wound up passing a gallstone in the middle of a supermarket on Thanksgiving morning, and so understandably decided to give the festivities a miss. But no fear -- Doug and I held it down. We drank a lot of Budweiser, ate a lot of stuffing, then got quietly and nicely drunk on brandy while watching Lost. It was a very chill, very mellow, very nice holiday, kids. I heartily recommend it.

Um, I had another major breakdown this morning re: the diss...I won't go into it right now, because the minutae of my ills to date is far too convoluted to bother typing out. Suffice it to say that I had a very harrowing morning, but I got a little help from a lady missionary who played in the Salvation Army Band.

Anyway, thank God for good friends, and St. Jude candles, and 12 oz. cans of courage. Here's looking at you, bitches.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Wooden Crosses

RIP, Chris.

Chris Whitley, 1960-2005

Monday, November 21, 2005

You Gotta Be Kidding Me

All of you poor suckers who -- like me -- work on a cubicle farm, know the dangers of spending most of your waking hours with the living, breathing, germ factories we call our coworkers. Most of them spend time in CDC laboratories, I suspect; surely merely feeding, bathing, and clothing their snotty little children can't be enough to make them such disease carriers, can it? Perhaps it is. Anyway, I think I have strep throat, dorklies.

Cowboy Curtis and I think that's crap.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

My Other Boys

Thank You, Ladies...You Didn't Have To Say That

Oh, the lads in the picture below(and accompanying this post) are Bret McKenzie and Jemaine Clement, better known to us "insider bitches" as Flight of the Conchords. They did a kickass Edinburgh Fringe show (I hear), a hilarious BBC Radio 2 show (which I did hear, actually, and loved), and they're some kinds of alternative comedy darlings. They're from New Zealand.

If you are a LOTR fan (don't lie, you dorks), you'll know Bret better as Figwit. That fine motherf*cker on the left does lots of independent film work and after Idris Elba, Daniel Dae Kim, and Mark Lamarr (fooled you, Hendrickson!), he's my babydaddy.

What the Scientists Won't Tell You (But I Will)

After frying my brain in the midnight oil, I decided around 3 am to call in sick today. Which I did. And man, I sounded it, too. Years of riding the Camel(wide lights) have give me a stellar morning rasp, dorklies.

Anyway, after futzing around for the majority of the day, my beau and I went to get some pizza at around 240 which point I still hadn't injested any coffee for the day. A bitchcakin' headache was staring me in the face, but I headed it off with 16 oz. of premium Pabst.

I love living like a college student.

I'll be 31 in a month.

You Ain't Got Nothing

It's 2:09 am on Wednesday, 16 November 2005. I have to defend a dissertation in a month that a) is not complete b)is largely incomprehensible (the portions that are completed, that is) c) is inadequately-researched and consequently, poorly-argued.

Also, I'm not entirely sure that one of my committee members is still on board. If she is not, I have to enlist a last minute pinch hitter...and my work is not really of the quality which makes strange professors jump at the chance to be affiliated with it...

I haven't been getting much sleep the past couple of days. I've been eating a lot of cereal, though, which I find curiously comforting.

Anyway, this is just a note to myself to say "You're stronger than you think you are. You didn't run that danged marathon for nothing. Remember who was looking out for you then?"

Monday, November 14, 2005

That's What We In The Business Call "The Money Shot"

Work in Progress: Gesundheit

Most of you dorklies don't know this, but in my spare time (what spare time, I hear you ask? Well, my dears, between dusting myself with biscuit flour and singing in the choir, I don't have much spare time. You're right) I'm a comedy writer. And this post, penned by my very own personal Iron Giant, contains something that comedy writers like to call " a good payoff." I only called it "the money shot" in the title so that you would check it out, you pervs.

Friday, November 11, 2005

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Tittays and Poosays and Bootays

Short of writing x-rated stuff in my blog, I don't know how to get more readers, my dorklies. And I feel as if should court more readers, so that the pressure on you lovely people is lessened. I don't want you to feel burdened by the need to scan these humble lines and offer occasional commentary. It's too much for you. You damned apes.

Mama's a little hopped up on caffeine this morning, children. It happens periodically. Nothing to worry about; nothing to see here. But I needed something to get me going again after a couple of hours o' craplacaca out on the streets of pain this morning.

One would think that a town/state so accustomed -- particularly in the winter, which is also commonly referred to as "the rainy season" -- to a daily deluge would find its citizenry equipped to deal with the rigors of driving while it's wet out. But the grannies, daredevils, Looky-Lous, and assclowns on the streets this morning should all be stripped of their driving privileges! Or maybe not. Maybe I'm just crabby because the alternator on my car is shot, and I don't have the money to replace it. So, at the moment, I am just jumping my battery whenever the car doesn't start. Let me tell you something: being poor builds character, assholes. And it makes you social in a way you might not normally wish to be. I mean, if you have to ask each and every person at the gas station (where your car has most recently given up the ghost) if they have jumnper cables, you find out pretty quickly that most people are ok folks, and they would help someone out if they could.

The reason I was out at all this morning is because my evil genius roommate, who, like her wily weiner dog, believes that she is fooling someone with affection and enthusiasm but is really crapping in your room when you are not looking, talked me into driving her wack ass to work this morning! Now, those of you who watch this space know that I am currently not working on Mondays and Tuesdays so that I can work on the diss in the comfort of my quiet, empty home. Mondays and Tuesdays are Mama Time. And while it may take me a while to get going during the day, I normally get some crap turned out before turning in. But it is imperative that I be allowed to follow the beat of my own drummer, and fall into my day at my own pace. So, imagine my annoyance when, against a backdrop of thunderous rain, Bernie tries to convince me that I should drive her to work this morning, because she only has one working windshield wiper. I mean, of course, I want her to get to work safely. For fusk's sake. But man, I didn't want to go out in that crap any more than she did. Plus, because I'm not too sure about my car (see above), I didn't want to "waste" any start ups on trips down to SE Portland. But, on the crap-o-meter, "working windshield wipers + low battery power" beats "barely working windshield wiper + perfectly adequate battery power" during a bad rainstorm. Plus, The Bern picked me up for work Friday night when my car was not working at all, so I figured I owed her one more ride in the PoopMobile. Plus PLUS, we're both supposed to be phone-banking tonight at Planned Parenthood (down in the vicinity of her job) so, ecologically anyway, it made sense to take one car. Or it would make sense, if that one car wasn't mine. But hers doesn't have working windshield wipers. So we have to take mine. Only mine has a fucked alternator and may not start. So we should take hers. Only if it's still raining tonight and I have to pick her up I'll get into a fiery wreck and kill somebody on the streets of pain because this whole thing sucks! I hate my life!

Anyway, the only other thing to note is that I had very, very little gas when setting out to drop Bernie off, ok? And for Bernie, who is definitely reading this and getting steadily more defensive about the persecution she is sensing underlies this missive, I can only say that I am exxagerating some of my annoyance [but only some, mind you] for comedic effect. But seriously: no more of your "it makes perfect sense/ it's common sense. hey, I have an idea" bright ideas, ok? Because they always wind up biting me in the ass and making me talk to winos!

After fighting my way through the traffic all the way there (about 35-40 minutes) and fighting my way through the traffic most of the way home (another 35 minutes), I realized that I HAD TO stop for gas. Now, I was worried that my car wasn't going to start up again, but I had to risk it. After all, I figured that, after all that driving around, the battery should have a little bit of a charge in it, right? The chances were better it would start right back up again THEN, as opposed to LATER that night (when I have to pick up Her Royal Wackness for the phone banking). Well, I tossed the dice and came up snake eyes, dorklies. Turned off the car at the pump and that's all she wrote. A nice wino with a bag of half-eaten microwave popcorn kindly helped me push my car away from the pumps and into a parking space, from which another kind man eventually got my car to start.

I'm back home now, and I'm not looking forward to going back out there later. Obviously, I'm not chancing anything with the Poop Chute tonight, which means that I am taking Bernie's car, The Re-Jector. I can only hope that it's raining very heavily out there tonight and I get hit by a semi and die a quick death. Wish me luck!

Monday, October 31, 2005

Happy Halloween From Dumpkin to You

Happy Halloween, kids. It's a little bit after 7 o'clock, and I have written about one page today...I did, however, make some necessary mental changes in the chapter I'm working on, which inclu---zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Oh, I've just put myself to sleep. Because even I am tired of hearing about this effing dissertation.

I just want to be done.

Anyway, part 2 of the Spader Seminar will be up soon, I hope. As for the other stuff I am working on...well, like the overextended nitwit I am, I singed up to do NaNoWriMo ( which means that, as of midnight tonight, I got one more thing I want to get done. This thing, though, is going to be so deliciously wack. I can't wait. It's called It's Biscuit Time, and it's labelled as literary fiction, but will actually turn out to be some fairly rock hard space opera, I bet. Watch this space, dorklies!

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Less Than Zero (1)

Yeah, I know that I should have used "Pretty in Pink" as my tagline for this post, since the inimitable Steff McKee is the one looking askance over this shit like I've just thrown up in his parents' bed after I passed out there during one his killer parties and eeeeee! I can't believe Steff McKee even knows who I am and he was totally going to kiss me and the whole room was spinning and it was so romantic but then I puked and passed out because the room was actually spinning from me drinking all of Steff's dad's single malt scotch and he is so mad at me. I hear his parents are out of town again this weekend and I know he is having another party but I don't think I should go but I really need to get my sister's sweater back. She doesn't even know I borrowed it!

Whoa! Peoples, I am so sorry. I channelled someone there, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't anyone with whom I'm remotely acqainted. There's something about a little James Spader talk that gets me crazy, though, y'all. That muthafucka does something to me that can't be explained (although I am going to attempt to), and furthermore, I'm not the only black woman feeling this particular love jones. If my internet researches point reliably to anything, it's that James Spader has gotten some sisters twisted. The only other white man we can all agree on is... well, there isn't another one. One sister's Brad Pitt is another sister's Hugh Jackman is another sister's Keanu Reeves. And Keanu is biracial!

Anyway, the following represents some very preliminary thoughts I've been thinking about yer man there, James Spader. Because he periodically reappears on the cultural radar and gets people excited; because I still can't quite put my finger on why I love him so much (although I am going to attempt to); and because he seems to exist in a rather specific sort of space in the collective psyche. What is that space? I'm going to tell you (at least, I am going to attempt to).

Fametracker, an online icon exposition-factory, has a regular feature called "The Galaxy of Fame," in which an eternally youthful Harrison Ford shines bright as the most heavenly body in a universe of slightly less dazzling celestial celebrities. In the scheme offered by this site and subscribed to by a large online audience, Harrison Ford embodies and owns the perfect amount of fame. He resides in a space carved seemingly especially for him. Everyone seems to know and like him; his appeal is inter-generational and trans-cultural; he can unironically appeal to those for whom entertainment is to be enjoyed sincerely and at face value, but at the same time, his participation in some of the most iconic films to have been made allows him to be safely enjoyed by hipsters and indie-elites alike. Everyone can cop to liking Indiana Jones. And Han Solo? Forget about it. No one is going to talk shit about Han Solo. There are few actors – and perhaps, Fametracker’s writers are correct, and there are no other actors – with Ford’s broad appeal and hipster cred. Yeah, the last few years, with their peeks at his no longer taut and tanned torso (What Lies Beneath) and oddly-discomforting attempts to catch a trend 20 years after it made any sense (getting his ears pierced) or dating the inexplicable Calista Flockhart – ok, Indy may be losing a few lumens of star power. Of course, this is an age in which Tom Cruise – Tom Cruise! – can see his stock diminish so significantly* that no one can remember anything he did before he started dancing on folks’ furniture and impregnating the Homecoming queen and selling Flintstones vitamins. Man, we never thought we would see the day when Tom Cruise would ever not be on the ascendant, getting more and more famous until he was recognized as some kind of national monument and you had to reserve a spot months in advance just to look at a big rock in South Dakota that had been dynamited to look like him.

Well, I’m not going to argue that Harrison Ford shouldn't be the sun in the Galaxy of Fame. But I want to temporarily place someone else in that position, if only to illustrate something about how fame changes, and fame changes you, even if you’re not the one who’s famous. For me, the sun in that galaxy of fame has always been, and always will be, James Spader. And if Jimmy Spader is the sun, then I’m one of those rogue planets that you occasionally hear about when you accidentally click on the “Science” tab on I’m in a hypothetical adjoining universe. I am a microscopic black body fragment orbiting a comet in the farthest edge of a singularity in an alternate space time continuum.

In the galaxy of fame, as in the galaxy of life, there is no one further from me and my life than James Spader. At least, that’s how it was. And that’s why I was so obsessed with him.

When I first saw Pretty in Pink, in which Spader plays the infinitely-more-interesting-than-Andrew-McCarthy Steff McKee, I think I blacked out everything but him and his white linen-suited persona from my mind. It was not until a re-viewing a few years ago that I remembered that Harry Dean Stanton, Annie Potts, and Jon Cryer had even been in that movie. Something crystallized when I saw Steff McKee – I think I was probably about 10 at the time, and at my most awkward, ugly, socially-maladjusted best by then—and I crushed on him in the way that became my trademark. Frozen stills of the movie would periodically pop into my mind, and while I thought that this was because Spader was so handsome, a part of me realized that I didn't actually find him all that good-looking. I didn’t want to have Spader, I wanted to be Spader. I didn’t necessarily want to be white and male, but I wanted all the privileges that went along with it. And in my mind, if you had to be white, then you had to be a man, too. That was the only way it made any sense. White women [in the John Hughes film universe] held absolutely no interest for me. Andie (Molly Ringwald) was poor, marginally more intelligent than the rest of her schoolmates, but prone to torment and mockery and damn – I had enough of that shit myself. Plus, who wants to be the girl who ends up with Andrew McCarthy? In my mind, on some very basic level, I think I thought that that was what most white women wanted: some version of Andrew McCarthy. I’ve since discovered that this is not at all the case, but hey, I was 10. My understanding of race/gender politics was in its infancy. All I knew was, better to be one of the guys than to be the girl. And best of all to be the guy who did the choosing, who had the parties, who existed in a morally bankrupt mansion of acerbic rejoinders and indifferent glances. Steff McKee skipped class, smoked in the hallways (true, he smoked what appeared to be Benson& Hedges 100s, which did kind of interfere with the whole persona he had cultivated) and managed to be the most interesting and memorable thing about a movie I otherwise care little for.

James Spader exists in a rarefied atmosphere of pure, abstract, solipsistic thought. He elevates introspection to a virtue, and in so doing, transforms it into its exact opposite. In thinking about themselves so much, to the exclusion of all else, his characters achieve a kind of Zen inversion whereby they seem to be focused completely outward. Example: in Pretty in Pink, it is only because he is so selfishly attached to conquering Andie that he becomes so obsessed with who she is, who she thinks she is, why she refuses him, and so on, ad nauseaum. Because his characters are so self-assured, they do not allow for any uncertainty on the part of the viewer. His characters demand an instantaneous chrystallizing of identity and a refusal to move beyond that space. He is what he is/ they are what they are/ you are what you are. It’s arrogance and narcissism as emotional maturity. This is sounding like some kind of Fountainhead malarkey, but really – James Spader makes it interesting to be self-absorbed. Other people don’t do it as well.

Anyway, that's enough for now. Stay tuned to this space, when I'll be moving further into this discussion of Spaders' Army:

Rip in Less Than Zero
JG Ballard in Crash
Nick in Supernova
Edward Whatshisname in Secretary
as well as some of the roles in which the Spadonics started, interestingly, to diminish: Stargate/The Practice/White Palace

The following is taken from something I found online. I'll post the link as soon as I find it.
Tom Cruise's popularity has dropped significantly in the last few months, according to the latest Genius StarPower report. By all measures, the plunge (among 13 to 49 year-olds) is steep for a celebrity of his magnitude:

his StarPower ranking plummeted from 12th to 50th
he went from the 11th most liked celebrity to the 197th
his fan base (those who like or like him a lot) shrank from 33% to 25%
he ranks among the top 5 most controversial actors (those who are heavily disliked and liked), along with David Spade, Tom Green, Pauly Shore and Ashton Kutcher.
The drop follows Cruise's controversial publicity tour for the release of "War Of The Worlds" and his engagement to actress Katie Holmes. The above figures are from the Genius StarPower Summer 2005 report (covering the six months to July 1, 2005) and the Spring 2005 report (covering the six months to April 1, 2005).

Monday, October 24, 2005

[Rough] Draft Dodger

I can’t believe that it’s already been 2 weeks since that damned marathon! I trained for that thing for almost a year, and it’s over. It’s just over! Somehow, I expected to ride a high a little longer than this. But already the whole experience feels slightly disconnected from the rest of my crapstacking existence; it also feels like…and I knew this would happen, and I am trying to silence this nasty little buggery voice…but, yeah, I can’t deny that there is a part of me that feels as if I could do it, then anyone could do it. That’s wack. Why can’t I have an unqualified moment of triumph?

But really, I’m already bored with the whole thing. I’m ready to do something else hard. Like, finish this dissertation. Complete one of my [many many uncompleted] screenplays. Work on the show I’m thinking about for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Lose some weight (I know that’s a banal and fairly wack goal, but I’m not denying that I’d like to be a little less chili and little more broth by the new year. Especially if I am going to be wintering with Varras, which is looking increasingly attractive a prospect). Continue to not smoke.

Oh, just mentioning that sweet, sweet nicotine makes me shake with desire. Oh, I miss it. I miss it. I misssssss it. Smoking was my favoritest thing, ever.

Whatever. The point is, as I read more and more things online, and as I werestle with this unwieldy chunk of writing that takes up 95 percent of my psychic real estate, the less I get interested in my own confessional prose as displayed on this fine, fine blog. Screw all this narcissistic, self-absorbed, self-congratulatory, solipsistic musing. So, from this post on, I am going to be writing [probably] less frequently – maybe one post a week—but the writings will hopefully be more substantive. Now, I am still pretty sure that the only people reading this thing regularly are Orlando, Fergus, and Bernie…I know that Chaput makes the occasional appearance, but as I don’t have any hot news a la Perez Hilton or datalounge, she is barely able to fake an interest. And who can blame her? Likewise Teri, who is only waiting for me to deliver on the hot hot miniature farm advice. Well, Teri, I’m sorry, but that’s not how I want to make my money, anymore.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

You'll Never Get Off On Your Own, Girl

2 Fast, 2 Furious, part 2 (Electric Boogaloo, ya heard?)

So, anyway, back to the news you all came here for. Based on my dad's advice, I deliberately scaled back my opening miles in the marathon. According to Mr. Todd P. Hudson, the first 10 miles or so should feel so easy that you feel as if you aren't working at all. I was grinning like an idiot cheesing for the spectators and walking through all the water stops during those first miles, anyway, so there was no chance that I was going to blow my strength reserves. But I wish now that I had kept my mile splits more in mind, and actually started to kick it up after mile 10. I never really felt like putting on a burst of speed, because I was so afraid that I'd shoot my proverbial wad too soon before the end. Well, by Grandma Moseying my way to the finish line, I managed to finish with all the other walkers. Except I wasn't walking! I was jogging that mother! Oh well.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Chocolate 'N' Fruity's Discount Champions

That sound you hear is the gentle soaring strings of the Chariots of Fire theme. Although you wouldn't know it if you were waiting for the news to appear on this site, I did finish the marathon; I did finish in less than six hours; I did have my legs lock up and refuse to move after a couple of hours; but most importantly, I did come out of this whole experience feeling a little bit ... no, a whole lot like a fucking person who can actually finish something she starts. Oh, my children, let me tell you: I had despaired of ever knowing that feeling. I haven't completed anything of note since I decided to take a chance on leaving my mother's womb. But I have now one bold check mark next to an item on my "To Do" list of life, and I fully anticipate getting another in the coming months. As you may or may not know, ducks, I quit smoking in July, and while it's a bit early yet to go ahead and claim the victory on that one (I can relapse like a bitch when it comes to something I want bad enough), I am going to go ahead and tuck my Ex-Smoker's Membership Card into the back pocket of my fat pants and hit the streets. It has been murderously difficult; but the thought of smoking, while tempting in the extreme, carries with it the knowledge that if I start again, eventually, I'll have to quit again. And I don't want to do this shit another time. Let this be it. Let me be the kind of person who can be around smokers with no fear of wrestling them to the ground and sucking the sweet, sweet nicotine off their lips and teeth. Let me be the sort of woman who doesn't stand uncomfortably close to strangers just so I can catch a little downwind secondhand fix. Let me be the sort of badass who can, maybe one day in the far future, have the occasional cigarette at a party, but never really feel like taking up the habit again, much like my good friend, Dorthe. Dorthe defended --SUCCESSFULLY- her dissertation in August, and she remains the spryest little troll doll this side of Lesbiana. Just so you know. As an aside and all that.

ANYWAY. I ran the marathon. Remember, that's how this post began? Well, after 1 year and 1 week of training, I arrived at the starting line full of promise, pee, and the expectations of my supportive family and friends. I got rid of the second in short order. It was not to be the last time I hit a port-o-poopy along the course route, however: I estimate that I hit the head at least 6, but possibly more like 10 times before I even hit mile 20. That's right, bitches! Fear my bladder and move! You don't want none of this! Not on your shoes, anyway!

I had an [unsolicited] running buddy for about .1 of a mile near the start of the race. I had come out of a water stop (Hal Higdon recommends walking through all water stops) to find a woman, about my age, possibly a little older, keeping pace with me. Keeping close pace with me. Like, sticking closer than a brother kind of pace with me. She smiled in my direction. "Ha!" she laughed. "I'm trying to keep up with you!"

Ladies and gentlemen, the only way you could not keep up with me is if you were in a race in another city. I was at the far back of the runners, and not even at the beginning of the walkers. I mean, granted, there are race walkers who can finish a marathon in 3 and a half hours (let me do the math for you: that's consistently doing less than an 8.5 min/mile). I can't run that fast doing a single mile, let alone maintain that pace over 26. But hey -- more power to those big-headed alien dorks.
Anyway, I looked over at my new race buddy with incredulity when she said that she was trying to keep up with me, and I have to admit, I sneered a bit when I said "It ain't gonna be hard." I wasn't trying to be evil, but I was truly amazed that someone could consider my 12 min/mile something to strive for. I mean, I kicked it up a notch later in the day, racking up some 9 and 10 min/miles, but I deliberately turned it way down to conserve my strength. I had no idea what it would feel like later on in the day, and while everyone talks good game about this "race day adrenaline" you're supposed to feel seeping from your pores like so much of that Gatorade-colored sweat in the Nike commercials, I didn't want to count on something that I had never experienced before. But guess what? It's true. The excitement of actually just showing up to run the marathon made me feel invincible. It's like my brain temporarily shut down the bitch-cakin' naysaying department and allowed me to feel like I might actually be able to pull this off. Which I did, by the way. Did I mention that?

More info (and race day photos!) later. No, for real!

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

we need a theme song

My best friend, Fergus, sent me something to get me through the marathon. It's the best, most coolest, most awesomest thing EVAH and I love it.

Monday, October 03, 2005

Crouching Keno, Hidden Pannido

"Come on, come on, come on now, touch me babe..."
--The Doors, "Soft Parade"

for Julie, who hooked me with up some Carolina barbecue this weekend. It was off the hook, Bernie.

Boy, there are so many things that creep me out. Or rather, there are things that I find profoundly disturbing, and rather than simpy expel them from my brain -- as I suspect most healthy people do -- I construct a mental film-strip (let's call these "creep-strips") of all the unsettling images and force them to play in endless, repeating loops in the sixth grade health class of my tortured brain. Currently featured: the eyeball popping out of its socket on that episode of ER I saw a few weeks ago, and some pictures I stumbled across online of a bedroom literally sprayed with human feces (when I say "stumbled across," I mean "saw in a 'gross things' thread on a message board I frequent. A non-scatological message board, I should add). I can't stop thinking of these horrible things and grossing myself out. I'm making myself sick about the one and worrying myself to death over the other. To be clear, I'm worried about my eyeball popping out, not losing control of my bowels and spray-painting my house with the resultant crap-paint. It's not helping that I am having trouble with my eyes/contacts at the moment. I need to get them checked out, but I've got no money and no insurance so I am just going to cross my fingers and hope it goes away. Usually, that works. Because I'm a hypochondriac and most of the stuff I think is wrong with me is all in my head. Where all my troubles exist. In my brain.

Anyway, previous creep-strips have prominently featured the stars of that photo you see accompanying this post. I watch a fair amount of PBS, and although I never contribute during the pledge drives and I critique the programming with the frequency and vituperation of the perennially hipper-than-thou irony class, I'm still PBS's bitch. I'll watch anything that comes on public television, even if the subject matter bores me (gardening), confuses me (foreign policy in the middle east) or enrages me (My Hero). So, when the twin towers of touch, the Keno brothers, got their own show (Find!), trading on their Antiques Roadshow popularity, I tuned in. Of course, I tuned in. Have you seen the Keno brothers? So life-like! Really, what they're doing with robots these days...

There is something about the blond bespoke boys that leads one to expect a much more elitist kind of bitchery from them, but they're actually quite pleasant. In fact, they are too pleasant. And therein lies the source of my discomfort. The Kenos are very appreciative, very enthusiastic, and very, very tactile. The Kenos stroke, caress, rub, clutch, embrace, fondle, finger, handle, and pat every thing within grasping distance. Now, I realize that they are antiques appraisers, so a certain amount of physical examination is absolutely necessary. Nevertheless, the degree to which the Kenos palm everything around them makes me anxious.

Also...oh, there's just no easy way to say this. Identical twin males...somehow, exponentially creepier than fraternal twin males, or even identical twin females. I apologize to any twin sets who manage to stumble across this blog. But I can't deny that I'd find the Keno Karess a lot less worrying if it wasn't done by the Brothers Grim.

And finally, I'm convinced that one of the Kenos is gay, but I can never remember which one I think it is -- because I think that Leigh and Leslie have carried the ol' twinsteroo-switcheroo into adulthood. I know that one week, the overly-groomed eyebrows of one Keno belonged to "Leigh," and the next week they were sported by someone I was supposed to believe was "Leslie." Anyway, I know that both the Kenos have progeny, and one is married. That's Leslie (maybe), who unfortunately for The Gay One, is also the "better looking" Keno. For Leigh (I think it's Leigh I'm talking about), it must be hard to suffer through life as a closeted antiques dealer (the gayest of gay cliches) and to not even be the better-dressed or better-looking of the set. I mean, when the straight member of an antique-dealin' terrible twosome is the one making more consistent visits to the esthetitican...well, now you're beginning to understand why I was captivated by Find! and why I entreated Julie's friend, Amy, to photoshop the Kenos into my then-current other creepy obsession: Jack 'N' The Box's meat-clay concoction, the pannido.

Saturday, October 01, 2005

Coming Soon (and you can quote me on this):

1. An essay about James Spader. Slow your roll, bitches -- I don't want your man.
2. A discussion of what I hope to get out of moving to L.A.
3. Some photos of the a-mazing hair concoctions, confections, and confunkshuns I've been playing with and paying for since I got to the PDX. Holla if ya hear me, sisters. It ain't no joke moving to a new city without someplace to get your hair did. Charlie, I miss you, honey!
4. Dissertation notes : this is more for my sake than yours, but as no one but Bernie, Fergus, and Chaput are reading this here, it don't matter!
5. Excepts from various works-in-progress, including my screenplay, some non-fiction pieces, and some ghetto-soul poetry. Kidding! I no longer write poetry. And any reference you find to an "Ebony Adams" poem online ain't me. See previous post "Sui Generis." You gotta trust me on this one. Please. I mean, hey -- if that other Ebony is reading this...girl, good luck to you in all you do. I'm not saying your stuff is bad; it's just not my style.

Anyway, that's all on its way. Keep your eyes on the prize and your hands where I can see 'em.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Hey, Dirty! Baby I Got Your Money

I bought a SanDisk mp3 player yesterday. I haven't paid my bills in months, but I just dropped 100$ I don't have on a music player that I wouldn't have even considered purchasing were it not for the marathon -- which is in less than two weeks, peeps. It doesn't feel right. And yet, when I think about going that distance with just the crapwack PDX radio stations to sustain makes me want to cry.

Anyway, Bernie is almost completely done paying me back the money she owed me -- almost none of which I used to pay my credit card bils (preferring instead to use that money to buy groceries and gas, as I am only working part-time now trying to finish up the dang dissertation), now, I'm just as effed as I was nine months ago, and there's no way out of it. By natural means. I may have to start making meth.

My moms birthday is this Saturday. I got her a beautiful scarf, and I'm going to pick up a pair of earrings I saw yesterday, too. If I get them in the mail today, she should get them on time. I hope so. In the history of the world, I have been on time with someone's birthday present maybe, twice. It's pathetic. I'm pathetic!

And speaking of birthdays, I am accruing some hi-larious goody-goods for Bernie's birthday, which was back in JUNE. Anyway, I only have one more thing to get and then she is going to die laughing. It's just that good.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

It's Just Not Funny

Yesterday, a hammer fell on my rommmate's head.

She was trying to hang a banner, and the hammer came down from its perch on top of the ladder. I'm not sure what speed it was going when it finally impacted her face, but it made a nice sickle-shaped scar. Which is appropriate, really, given a) the implement that did it; and b)the fact that she works for a labor union.

She is fine, by the way. She's got a couple of stitches in her forehead, but she'll be fine if she just keeps taking the ibuprofen.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Oh, and by the way

Your Brain's Pattern

Structured and organized, you have a knack for thinking clearly.
You are very logical - and you don't let your thoughts get polluted with emotions.
And while your thoughts are pretty serious, they're anything from boring.
It's minds like yours that have built the great cities of the world!

We are the Champions, My Friend

I rocked the 16 this weekend. I killed the 16. I destroyed the 16. I triumphed over the 16 with no more than a little grit, some cheap running shoes, and sufficient hydration.

I came back strong, kids. On race day, I will be ready. Thanks to my dad, who gave me some much-needed advice (that I didn't want to listen to) and Fergus, who gave me the kind of long-distance high five I needed to keep trying and not give up. Which sounds corny, but kiss my ass, you cynical bastards -- 16 miles is a long way to run. It's the furthest I've ever run in me life. But I did it. I did it in the heat of the day, wearing crap gear and a weave that was three days past needing to be taken out. I did it even though I had been beaten the last two times I attempted it. I did it even though some thought I couldn't shift my bulk. I did it! I did it!

Sorry if I'm getting on your nerves here, but I was really anxious, readers. I didn't know if I had it in me, and my parents spent a lot of money on tickets to come see me run this race. I don't want to crap out halfway through. Nor do I want my overachieving brother to have any more ammunition against me.

Shit. Can you imagine how insufferable I am going to be when I finish the actual marathon? You should probably skip that post.

Monday, September 12, 2005


I didn't finish the 16 yesterday. After about 5 miles, my feet and knees hurt so bad I had to decide if I wanted to keep punishing myself. I wound up doing 7 altogether, but not without walking a little bit. It suuuuuucked, kids. I cried in the car on the way home, as I already freaking out about finishing the race, and this kind of late-in-the-game injury and training derailer is precisely what I don't need right now. I have to start pushing the glucosamine and chondritin, and hope that by race day, I see some improvement.

I am going to try the 16 again tomorrow morning. I got some new running pants and a new jog bra/tank top. Maybe if I don't look like a hobo running from the law, I will feel better out there. My last set of running pants went through so many crotch repairs it was ridiculous. It looked like a coat of many colors down there.

Sunday, September 11, 2005


16 miles today. I have to start no later than around 4 o'clock or I will never get done before dark. It's a new route; one I've never run before. I hope there are plenty of water/rest stops. I have to pee a lot when I'm running. And man -- you can't choke down a gel without water.

Saturday, September 10, 2005

Who am I?

I'm eating a cold tamale and doing laundry.

It's a Saturday afternoon and I have a couple of bucks to spend (literally, like, a couple of bucks. That's it); why am I inside doing this?

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Fa Sho'

I got my marathon confirmation in the mail today. It's for real, kids. I'm going to be running a marathon in a little over a month. I don't feel ready, and I'm so so scared. But I know that I can do this. Just like I know that I can finish writing this dissertation and defend it and get my long-awaited, eagerly-anticipated PhD before my 31st birthday.

I am going to do two amazing things this year. And just staying alive doesn't count as one.

All the Way Live in 2005, kids.

Monday, September 05, 2005

I Just Can't. Not Yet.

I've been reading a lot of blogs lately; and I've been seeing and reading a lot of great material covering the absolute tragedy in the Gulf Coast. But I just can't write about it here yet. I am still too emotional, too angry, too..willing to scream, I guess. I never thought that the racial and class inequities in this country would reveal themselves so starkly, so horrifically. It has never been more apparent that -- all niceties aside -- if you're white, you're all right, if you're brown, you can stick around, but if you're black.. get back. And really, if you're white but poor...well, they ain't got much use for you, either.

I Can't Believe It's Not Human Hair

Things I am doing today:

1. Hanging out with Bernie. Should be a fun time, as Bernadette Van Dyke is some kind of crazy broad.
2. Finishing this home-made Tragi-Weave (tagline on the package: "I Can't Believe It's Not Human Hair"). Actually, the braids look pretty good. I'm doing some crazy pattern of corn rowns and individual [semi] box braids, and it doesn't look quite as crappy as it could have. Plus, the color I got is amazing. It's this weird combination of auburn, silver, and dark brown (the color of my natural hair). It's sounds ghetto fabulous, and believe me, it is. But it's also quite punky and glam. I'll take a picture if I can and post it.
3. Maybe going for a run tonight. I did a 10 last night (instead of the scheduled 16), and had a horrible time. My knees ached, my hips were sore, my attitude was bad. I give yesterday's run a C/C-.

Have a great Labor Day, kids. Remember, if it wasn't for unions, your ass would be at work in the factory right now.

Saturday, September 03, 2005

Sui Generis

If you google "Ebony Adams," you get about a billion hits -- and around of two of them actually refer to me. This Ebony Adams is NOT the Ebony who is a) a champion equestrian; b) a high school track star; c) the person for whom a warrant has been issued somewhere in Texas; and most importantly, d) NOT the Ebony with that "ghetto soul" poetry up on the web. Now, I got nothing against those other fact, we might just start a girl gang and commence to kicking ass in your town. But I do take issue with the fact that apparently, my mother didn't have the forethought to name me something truly unique, like Clytemnestra Jones, or something really common, like Kelly. I honestly couldn't care less about people from my past contacting me, but if some poor soul I used to torment is curious about what I've been up to lately, I don't want them to relax back into their easy chairs, thinking, "that ho is running from the law and winning jumping trophies and I just didn't think she was that kind of woman..."

'Cause I ain't.

Mark It Down

Thursday afternoon, while I was tap-tap-tapping away on my keyboard at work, I listened to Mark Lamarr sub for Mark Radcliffe on BBC Radio 2. Lamarr had promised to do an hour and a half show of all requests, and like the wage-slavin' badassssss I am, I requested "I'm Bad" by LL Cool J (it turns out to be true, kids: ladies do love cool James), or barring that, some Sam Cooke -- one of my favorite artists, whether he was leading the Soul Stirrers or singing about his li'l red rooster. You dig? I didn't expect to get my request played, as I've asked for some Buck Owens in the past and gotten bitterly denied. But Thursday, it all came together. Just as I was getting ready to have my 20th nicotine craving of the day, he did it. Monsieur Lamarr played some Sam Cooke, said that it was for me, and then proceeded to break down why he couldn't play the LL Cool J track. Peeps, whatever -- I couldn't have cared less. Lamarr thinks I got great taste in music and he said my name on air and I'm telling you: it doesn't even matter that he thinks I'm a dude.

Wednesday, August 31, 2005

As If Things Weren't Bad Enough

The people in the Big Easy have ignorance to contend with, too: (note: this link no longer works)

Apparently those white victims of Hurricane Katrina are "finding" things on store shelves; black victims are "looting" those items.

Update 9/3/05: Go to (see link bar at right) for an article on the above, with arguments from both sides on the portrayal of the Gulf Coast victims. And did you see Kanye West go off on this very same thing? You might not have (I didn't) -- they cut [some of] his remarks from the West Coast broadcast. Specifically, his slamming of Bush for not caring about poor black people. Hmmmm..... I mean, yeah, Kanye was having trouble getting his point across, but I couldn't help but agree with some of his remarks that I did get to hear. We'll see how his statements play out in the next few days. Fox News has already been demonizing those citizens who had to be evacuated (largely black, largely poor) for "choosing" to stay.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Please Wait For Your Hostess To Seat You

...It just occurred to me that friends, Romans, and countrymen who stumble upon this little blogspot shack might just get to wondering what's up with all this plasma talk. Well, kids, the reason is simply this: after recommitting to defending my dissertation this December, I had to cut out a serious amount of extraneous stuff in my life -- to wit, about 50% of my working hours, and hence, about 50% of my paycheck. I was never flush with the green anyway, but stepping down to part-time office work has really left me destitute. Were it not for a supportive roommate, faith in an inscrutable-yet-generally-caring-deity, and a place down the street that will tap my veins for that sweet, sweet plasma, I'd...well, it would be harder to fill up my car with gas when necessary. I just refuse to sell any more books or cds for cash. Only a few more months and I'll be able to put this whole thing behind me. I'll probably still be broke, but I'll be doing it with a freshly-minted doctorate, dammit.
...Let this be a lesson to you, kids. In fact, let this several lessons. One, don't fuck around [more than is absolutely necessary] during your grad school years. Poverty is poverty is poverty, whether you speak 5 languages or just one. You're not classing up the welfare rolls just because you read Rimbaud. Two, don't fuck around [more than is absolutely necessary] with your credit. Your parents may not have told you this, but Auntie MG will: pay your bills on time! And pay off your credit cards in full! Every month! No, I said EVERY month!
...Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying life is all about what you have. We don't need any help getting more materialistic. All I'm saying is, when a grown woman finds herself on a rainy Monday afternoon watching 2/3 of Sixteen Candles alongside 40 other sad souls hooked up to machines so that they can either eat, buy more meth, or get bus fare for the week -- well, something has gone wrong. There's the kind of being poor that's a function of being steadily exploited by your society (the people selling plasma because they work for minimum wage or less and just can't make it on that pittance) and there's the kind of being poor that's a function of me doing coke twice a week* for a couple of years. And that, kids, is the kind of poor that's my own damned fault.

* I kid, I kid. I was only doing coke like, once a month, tops.

Another Day, Another Dollar

...13$ dollars, actually. That's how much I have left after going to the grocery store with my plasma cash and buying shortening and lunch meat for the week. A sister gotta have her pastrami, neh? Anyway, I needed the shortening for samosas, which I made last night and kicked ass all up and down the avenue before taking a cool-down lap and coming in for a rubdown. There are about 25 samosas left; I'll probably give half to Scooter, since it was his idea for me to make them in the first place.
...To the right you'll find a picture of me and my Boston Baked Bean Sham Marriage and Discount Karaoke Bar partner, Bernadette Van Dyke. It was taken while we were in Las Vegas, sometime in the Pleistocene era. Sadly, my hair doesn't look that different now. In my defense, however, I just woke up, and I got bed-head for reals. It would appear from this photo that I once carried this hairstyle on purpose, which is a frightening thought.
Check out Bernie's blog (which that heffa needs to update with a quickness, as the world is dying, dying, DYING to know what life is like in her new office space) here: Ya feel me? Well, knock it off.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Excuse Me, I Gotta Go Call M***** M***

I sold my plasma today for 20$. I got to keep my red blood cells, though. That was nice.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

And This is Not My Beautiful House

...the hike went off without a hitch, in case anyone was wondering. 5 miles of treacherous terrain, boldly conquered by your fearless leader. Man, I hiked the hell out of that trail.

This evening (and not this morning, as I had planned) I am going to do my second 14-mile training run in preparation for October 9. That's when I strap a camel-bak full of Powerade Endurance on my back and safety pin 4 mocha Clif Bar energy gels to my ragged t-shirt and run the Portland marathon. Because I am a badass. Excuse me -- I am a badassssssssssss.

Anyway, you'd think that someone running that distance would be a bit more disciplined and hearty, badassssssssssss, but when it comes to exercise, I can think of any excuse not to do it. The only reason I didn't go this morning is because I didn't have any batteries for my walkman. I know it sounds pathetic, but I simply could not face being out there for such a long time (I am a little bit of a brick house, you understand, so I am a very slow runner. It takes me about 148 minutes to run 14 miles) with nothing but my own impoverished imagination to keep me from dropping to my knees and giving up the ghost. So I didn't go. And now I gotta run that bad boy this evening, when it is still hot as heck out there. Smooth move, fool.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

This is Not My Beautiful Wife

I am going camping today with Scooter. Somewhere along the Columbia Gorge, apparently. I'm fairly certain that he is not taking me into the woods to kill me, but in typical postmodern paranoiaist fashion, I am leaving this electronic record. If I'm not back by the end of today, somebody come looking for me, please. I need to eat, like, every three hours or I get cranky.

Friday, August 26, 2005

The First Cut Is The Deepest

There ain't no sense in worrying about making this first post so damned good that I win some kind of trophy. Best to just get down to the get down, eh? Right? So, my brothers and sisters in Christ, let me give you what you need...2005 on it...get live on it. Pick it up:

The Lake Street Get Down is the place where I am going to park my cyber ass up to and until that point that I hire a personal assistant to take over the duties of documenting my life for me -- and said PA moves my ten cent ramblings to some other site.

The Lake Street Get Down is envisioned as a place for me to collect my thoughts regarding...well, anything I happen to be thinking of at the time yours truly parks her rusty dusty in front of the keyboard to type something up. I'd guess -- and I'm going on the fact that I know myself pretty well, and the following is pretty much guaranteed -- that The Get Down will contain 90% effluvia, 5% original material, and 5% incisive wit so cutting you could hurt yourself, boy.

Commence to waiting for the next post, my new friends.