The Onion: Who could you take in a fight? Suzanne Vega: Oh, dear. I don't know. Beck is smaller than me, but he's got more energy. And I wouldn't want to fight him, because he's way too cute. Let's leave it at that.
I'm thinking of applying to be on ernie's new webgame, the puppetmaster II. You tell me, is that a good idea? I don't want to get eaten alive by the weblog people. I tell you, I fear them. They are aggressive about their "blogs." I am just not hostile enough, and that's my problem. One of my problems, I should say, rather.
Oldies are, of course, another one of my problems.
He kept dreamin', that one day he'd be a star a superstar but he didn't get far
My guestbook is broken. Just send me email, K?
more banal imitations of the liberal west
Tuesday, February 11, 2003 @ 06:10 p.m.
That subject has nothing to do with anything, in case I confused you.
Simpsons made me laugh:
Lisa: "Do you even know what a rhetorical question is, dad ?"
Homer: "DO I KNOW WHAT A RHETORICAL QUESTION IS?"
Get it? Of course you do, you're smart people!
The academy award nominations have been announced. I'm not really going to pretend I care except that this means I get to watch and make fun of the outfits. And: I'm surprised that Gangs of New York got a best picture nomination, considering what bad reviews it got. I'm going to have to go see The Hours, because every one else has, apparently. And it's one of those movies you have to go see, even if you don't want to, just because.
You know who should really win all the oscars? Bing & bong, the strange animated characters from the children's cartoon. Their sofa is the most amazing thing.
We got $5,000
Monday, February 10, 2003 @ 03:30 p.m.
I finished my English 287 paper just now by applying myself and being dilligent! I think I've turned over a new leaf!
Nah, I'm kidding. It was a fluke.
I'm going to read Coriolanus in the bath. I think Coriolanus is the dirtiest Shakespeare play. I mean, think about it.
Want to get rid of your old stuff? Go sign up for swappingtons! Trade your old stuff for other peoples' old stuff! [Say I referred you. My username: jocelynb]
from Advice to Writers by Billy Collins
Sunday, February 9, 2003 @ 02:40 p.m.
From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift
a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet,
and cover pages with tiny sentences
like long rows of devoted ants
that followed you in from the woods.
I watched four movies yesterday: Shane, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Chicago, and Office Space. Chicago is a very entertaining movie, and good for when one's boyfriend is out of town for the weekend. I wish real life were like a musical, and people would spontaneously begin to sing and dance whatever they were feeling. This is also an improv trick. Someone will yell, "sounds like a song!" and whoever just spoke a line has to write a song with that line in it. We're going to try this in real life.
SOUNDS LIKE A SONG!
No one is dancing, except me.
I'm never going to make it through midterm week, not in one piece.
Here's a question for you, which I was thinking about in the shower this morning. Let's say a person was trying to commit suicide, and they jumped off a very tall building, and it was certain they were going to fall to their death (on contact with the ground). But then a psycho on one of the apartment balconies shot them to death before they hit the ground. Would it be morally wrong for the psycho to shoot the suicide?
SOUNDS LIKE A SONG!
Butch: You know, it could be worse. You get a lot more for your money in Bolivia, I checked on it.
Sundance: What could they have here that you could possibly want to buy?
Thursday, February 6, 2003 @ 11:07 p.m.
When I was a little kid I used to think sleeping was the biggest waste of time imaginable. I always wanted to stay up later than I was allowed and I woke up early in the morning and hit the ground running, with whatever idea was in my brain as I fell asleep the night before. Now it's just the opposite. I crave sleep and have an endless capacity for it. It scares me, a little, because it seems so mindless and meaningless. It's just a way of passing time.
What happens to people that as they become older they realize their potential for unhappiness? It seems like so many people my age are so jaded and unhappy-- and so aggressive about being jaded and unhappy. Being depressed isn't a philosophical statement, and nihilistic angst and a calculated scruffy look don't count as a life.
On that note, the things that make me the happiest these days are: westerns, email from Chris, postal mail, my people (+dog), Spanish movies, visiting English professors, Garcia Marquez, John Irving, this warmish weather, things that come in tins, nervousness feedback points, good cold medication, when people send me email after reading this website to tell me I am a genius [which happens often, I'm serious], and making up new words. (Today: "contradictoriness". Yesterday: "mythicality")
My mother and I are reinventing our house with a little help from IKEA. They didn't pay me to put that comment in here either.
tell me the truth...
Wednesday, February 5, 2003 @ 08:05 p.m.
do I look fat in these ugly blue stars?
it gets worse, it gets worse
Wednesday, February 5, 2003 @ 08:32 a.m.
I write open letters
Dear immune system,
I'm sorry I never eat fruit. But is this really necessary? Do you have to retaliate? Couldn't we have just talked about it and worked it out? You're being so unreasonable, baby. Call me. Please?
Dear Courtney Love,
I don't know why you must get arrested for air rage. You do it to yourself.
Dear North America:
Why do we insist on acting surprised when contestants on reality TV shows turn out to have had porn careers? When will we stop pretending that we think reality TV is this wholesome showcase of good American values? It isn't shocking that someone willing to sacrifice their dignity and privacy on TV in exchange for money would, well, sacrifice their dignity and privacy in porn movies in exchange for money. Think before you open your mouth.
Dear Whitehall Robins, makers of the fine line of Dristan products:
I would like to start by congratulating you on your fine line of Dristan decongestant products. In the past five days I have been reduced to lying in the middle of my floor screaming and pounding the floor with my head, in the throes of a mutant death cold, and only Dristan has prevented me from losing it altogether. But I would like to clarify something. In the instructions for your product, it says, "Use every 10 to 12 hours as required." Does this mean every 10 to 12 hours, or as required? Because as required would be more like once every 45 minutes. You're killing me here.
I respond promptly to all email
Tuesday, February 4, 2003 @ 02:59 p.m.
Subject: Re: your money
Dear Mrs. Coleman:
Thank God you emailed me! I have been anxiously hoping you would contact me as I am in urgent need of your help. What a co-incidence that MY late husband was also the president of a third-world country, who was ousted from rule during some ill-timed political turmoil! What are the chances of that, Mrs. Coleman, I ask you? Pretty damn slim!
At the end of my husband's term in office, he had hundreds of millions of dollars in the bank-- hard-earned tax dollars extracted from the starving poor at great expense! It breaks my heart to think of it, now that I am living in relative poverty in a modest New York penthouse. But we had to leave in such a great hurry that we were not able to access this money, fearing for our lives. It is still sitting in a numbered account in a Swiss bank, slowly accumulating interest. I have been waiting for the perfect person to help me get it out, and I think that perfect person is you! What do you say, Mrs. Coleman? Share, share, that's fair-- right?
All I really require from you is a down-payment of US$5,000.00 (deposited into a bank account in the Bahamas, registered in your name, Mrs. Coleman) to access this money. Don't ask me how giving me $5,000 is going to let me get at the other money, the hundreds of millions of dollars, because I have no idea, Mrs. Coleman. But I'm a resourceful widow of a former third-world-country President! Of course I will figure something out, much in the manner of Evita or Mrs. Pinochet! And I'm sure you're going to lend me your assistance. Please contact me at the confidential email address above ("firstname.lastname@example.org") so we can begin our arrangements.
Thank you in advance for your help and co-operation.
Wishing I had pretended not to know English very well,
Tuesday, February 4, 2003 @ 09:45 a.m.
I love the smell of Dristan in the morning... it smells like victory.
you could always be an astronaut
Monday, February 3, 2003 @ 03:16 p.m.
Item the first. I think the best possible euphemism for the male organs of reproduction is the elephant sound from the Missy Elliot song "Work It".
Item the second. Would someone who has read the play Antony and Cleopatra please phone me and explain it to me, because I don't understand it at all. And I have a quiz on it tomorrow.
Item the third. I cut my own hair with my family's office scissors, and it looks terrible. In this case I do regret the things I have done-- specifically, cutting my own hair. It's much shorter than I expected.
I'm not your superhero, your fantasy, your big misunderstanding. I am not ice and smoke; I am rice paper and dust and glue, and I am having trouble keeping it all together.
You never said you were gonna be so addicted.
Monday, February 3, 2003 @ 09:44 a.m.
Still sick. No desire to post. Sorry.
Oh yeah: Dolores smiled upon us, and we have been blessed.
Saturday, February 1, 2003 @ 09:03 p.m.
phrases overheard from my basement while my parents watch a Lord Peter Wimsey detective movie:
"it appears that the murderer"
"I am investigating this matter"
"as a matter of routine"
I'm sick. Thus my lack of updates or anything magnificent to say.
Before tomorrow we must say a prayer to Dolores, the kooky goddess of thrift store karma.
all the words have slipped away
Thursday, January 30, 2003 @ 10:23 a.m.
getting the story twisted
Wednesday, January 29, 2003 @ 03:09 p.m.
Lots of people think they're God's gift to women, but Montgomery Clift actually is. He was in the movie I watched today for my FMS lab, Red River.
It's ironic that I wrote that before looking him up on the IMDB, because Montgomery Clift was gay. Oh well, what the hell.
Hey, read on.
In 1956 during filming of Raintree County (1957) he ran his car into a tree after leaving a party at Elizabeth Taylor's; it was she who saved him from choking by pulling out two teeth lodged in his throat. His smashed face was rebuilt, he reconciled with his estranged father, but he continued bedeviled by dependency on drugs and guilt over homosexuality.
I think this justifies an appreciative whistle and the word, "Dude!"
Anyway, this film studies class is bringing me great enjoyment. Westerns are a very underrated genre, it seems. I love the endings, which hardly ever contain the formation of the heterosexual couple. What I don't like about them, though, is the violence. (I know, it's like saying "I like war movies except for the violence.) But it's true! The men in these movies have no problem-solving skills. Someone insults someone else and suddenly there's a shoot-out. (It's like a small-scale allegory for modern global politics.) I want to yell at these silly boys, "Listen! You could work it out! All you need is love!" In fact, this is more or less what the female characters are always yelling in these movies, and I am on their side 100%.
In the one we watched today, though, the girl got her way. She shot John Wayne in the hand to get his attention and then gave them a lecture about love, and it worked! They made up! They resolved their conflicts peacefully! It was the western I've been dreaming of all my life.
On another note, my father is marking social studies 30 diploma exams this week and it makes for very amusing stories in the "kids say the darndest things" genre.
My dad: "Apparently, it was Adolph Hitler's lesser-known brother Rudolph who established a dictatorship in Germany."
Me: "I guess he was trying to compensate for being left out of all the other reindeers' games."
Finally: James informs me there is going to be a movie adaptation of one (or all?) of the Series of Unfortunate Events books. This delights me. Jim Carrey will play Count Olaf, however, which delights me less. Jim Carrey makes me cringe, as he does so many other self-respecting Canadians. I mean, yeah, we're funny... but not like that.
I've suddenly, inexplicably begun to like orange juice.
Hey, there's an REM song about him too! Whaddya know? I'm going to download it RIGHT NOW.