This is one of the funniest pictures I have ever seen. I downloaded it a while ago, and it was my desktop for all of freshmen year—I don’t know if you guys heard about this a couple years ago.

Giselle Bundchen, the most beautiful woman on the planet (ok…maybe she is tied for that title with Uma Thurman) is sabotaged by some dykey, no-make-up-wearing, little mouse of a PETA activist. She is wearing a brown tweed jacket over what looks like olive green slacks that have a dark black racing stripe down the side. Call me crazy, but I would dress up a bit more if I was protesting something.

I think probably the funniest thing is that if you look at Giselle, you can’t tell whether her pissed off face is because she is being humiliated by a nature-worshipping flannel-bedecked ogre, or whether that is the usual look on her face when she “walks” (as they use the term in the modeling world…so I hear.)

The next second, a security guard is shown tackling the PETA-skank off of the runway, and her straight, un-high-lighted, limp brown hair is caught momentarily sticking straight out like a flailing baby’s arms due to the impact of the hefty security guard. The fashionistas even applauded when the PETA protesters were pushed off the platform! Were they hurt? Who knows…but the fact that the fashion industry would care more about squelching a fur protest than caring about human life makes this catty bitch smile. Oh, god. PETA lost big on this one.

I, in my ever cynical, malevolent, sense of humor, have one pronouncement: Goddamn priceless.

Making love with his ego, Ziggy sucked up into his mind

Last night was hil-a-rious. Went to Shattered with Craig, Miranda, Jesse, and Michael, a guy that Craig met on “whore-dot-com”.

Michael just moved here and didn’t know anyone, so I, of course, decided to make a round with him and see if we couldn’t find him a guy.

Cher to Ty: “Let's do a lap before we commit to a location.”

Unfortunately, the couple we bumped into (A&J) turned out to be some slutty, creepy, popped-collar-midget-queens that wanted to “take him home”. As if.

Anyway, lest you all call me shallow (Dionne “No, Cher! Not to your face.”—ok, I will stop with the Clueless references…really) I will tell you what else I have been up to lately.

Occasionally, I like to go chronologically through artists’ careers (as I did with Led Zeppelin) to better get a feel for their development of their work. My current project is David Bowie. Thanks to my enabler limewire and internet music piracy, I have gotten through Ziggy Stardust today.

L'attente

The last few days have been spent working, sleeping, and reading Harry Potter (gasp! Could that ending be right?), which I finished this morning at 2:30AM. I was so tired I slept through my alarm clock…I was supposed to go bike riding with Darrell at 8AM on the MKT trail. I saw him a couple of days ago when me and the ‘mos were bowling. Darrell, incomprehensible and inscrutable as always, was rambling about how he was becoming white trash. Bowling on Thursday nights and skipping work to go see Journey and such.

“And so this guy that I work with called and said, “Steve Perry is back with Journey! We are skipping work tomorrow!”

Last night I cooked dinner with Eryn and we sat and watched the Pretender with Janet. We do love us some Michael T Weiss.

This afternoon Lane and I played 3+ hours of croquet. The heat index is about 110˚--I am currently rehydrating to prepare for the dehydration that is to occur tonight—Shattered! I can stop anytime I want, so you can just stop your nay-saying.

As you see, my life is consisting of more and more mundane events, happenings, and thoughts. Such is summer.

Oh, PS. I hope to post some pics of me soon. I know, I know. You can hardly wait.

PostSecret

Sorry I caused such a tizzy with my last post. Scandulositiy is not what I strive for…ok, who am I kidding?--yes it is.

Speaking of secrets: if I haven’t already raved to you about this site, you should check it out now. Of course, as many good and worthy things in my life, Rachel A introduced it to me way back last winter. We thank her for that.

Totally fascinating.

Mort Exquise

There is a certain time of dusk, when the sun has disappeared behind the horizon, but the sky is still very light, awash in pastel blue, when I have a glaring, unnerving moment of fleeting clarity.

Tonight it was 8:43PM, and I was driving in my car and listening to the Scherzo from Schubert’s Death and the Maiden. What, you ask, was my epiphany?

Sorry, even I have some secrets.

Shhh! Drama.

Not much has happened the last few days—so thus my lack of updates. I mean, I have been busy, but my going-ons don’t really lend themselves to my outrageously overactive imagination.

Saturday night, Craig and I went to Michelle’s (Rachel’s little sister) party. We get a call half way there with an ominous pronouncement: “We have lingerie and jewelry.” Of course this whipped us into a frenzy, and by the time we arrived at Michelle’s doorstep, we were both salivating heavily.

Michelle and Dalton (her jazz piano playing bf) just moved back from NY, where Dalton finished school. Michelle decorated her house on a shoestring (and don’t laugh, I am *not* a queen)—it was absolutely gorgeous. Mirrors and colorful 1950’s advertisements lined the walls. And on the floor of the living room, was an enormous pile of Bonnie’s jewelry and lingerie, which she had willed to Michelle.

Bonnie is Dalton’s 40-something mother. She embodies all that is fab-u-lous. She has 7-inch tall, lacquered solid, Texas-cheerleader hair, she is a part-time cross-country coach, and a dance instructor. The first time I met her, she was bedecked in tight white sailor pants, a skin-tight jean jacket studded with rhinestones (made out of her grandfather’s overalls), huge gold-spangly high heels, and an abundance of charm bracelets and heavy, pendulous gold chains, and a matching bow perched jauntily on the side of her head. After several glasses of sweet wine, she couldn’t refrain from braking into dance steps at Rachel’s house (“5-6-7-8! And step. And back. And walk-the-dog. And brake it down. And hold!)

I never met anyone more over-the-top than Bonnie. She is ri-goddamn-diculous. And, we love her.

Anyway, we spent most of Saturday night drinking, avoiding the annoying queen Kevin (Craig was glad he was there—he made us look *so* straight), bedecked in gaudy jewelry, and marveling over how racy a 40+ year old’s panties could be.

The night ended with Craig getting the numbers of 2 very attractive and flirty straight girls who are dancers at Stephens. We promised to call them next weekend and go dancing with them at Shattered. I can’t wait.

I made my grand exit at 2:30 AM by hurtling two very unripe limes at the queen (who was wearing pearls that “did not suit madam well” and dancing to gawd-awful Britney Spears) and then stumbling to Craig’s car.

Sunday morning, Craig left just before my roommate, his sister, and their mother came to the apartment. I was still in my briefs…I shudder to think what would have happened if they had shown up 15 minutes earlier. Scandalous doesn’t begin to describe what would have ensued.

The rest of Sunday was spent lounging in my skivvies, eating grilled cheese and tomato soup, and a fruit platter. Yes, I said fruit platter. I read Harry Potter most of the day, and contemplated how good it was to finally have a day off—I had worked 13 days straight. Most of them I had to get up at <7AM for work.

Tonight I am going to read, practice, see Craiger, and play some fucking croquet. That’s right bitches! Bye. And Love!

Mon 'canon' c'est l'instinct

Not much to blog about today. Spent 5 hours in the field this morning in 98% humidity. Ed was not happy.

Oh, and by the way, boxcutters are sharp, as evidenced by the fact that I cut the shit out of my thumb this morning with one. I contemplated telling you all that I sliced myself with a jewel-encrusted letter-opener as I opened a box of hurricane-appropriate chiffon gowns sent to me “the” Mrs. Astor (That dirty birdie!) packed in ostrich egg cartons. But, there is a limit to how much ridiculous OTT (over the top) gay shit you all will put up with.

So I thought better of it.
On an unrelated note: Happy Bastille Day to all the cheese-eating surrender monkeys. I sho' do love some frenchies! (The title of this post is a quote of Poulenc's. "My 'article of faith' is instinct." How fitting.)

speaking little, perhaps not a word

Much fun was had today: I went to work, had a good lesson, played croquet with Rachel and Lane (they rock!), discussed the different methods of obliterating the planet and talked about the shape of the universe, called Alan to discuss said shape of the universe, fixed dinner, and read some publications. I am also seeing Craig tonight. Yippee!

On a totally unrelated note: to me, my “unscented” deodorant stick smells like lime gin. How much of an alcoholic am I?

O God, I can stop whenever I want.

After that, Dion's virginity went from technical to non-existent

When we went to the Vu Thursday night, Laura, Amanda and I sneaked by the underage-drinking-Nazis because Caren knew Dorothy, a girl that works there.

When our waitress came up to us she asked, “Are you friends of Dorothy?”

After a split-second glance at Craig I said, “Yeah, we are disco dancing, cake walking, Oscar Wilde reading, friends of Dorothy.” You see, I had not been introduced yet, and so I thought she was referring to our ‘mo status. We were all embarrassed for me.

Clueless is the pinnacle of Western society.

Underage drinking rocks my fucking socks off

Having the willpower to drag my drunk/hungover ass to work on a Sunday morning at 7:30AM is boss.

However, waking up and smelling like vomit because I puked all over my bed last night, is not.

Note to all: I am on self-destruct mode. You have been warned.

Let's Get After It

Last weekend, my friend Manda and I went fireworks shopping. It is a little tradition of ours to seek out ridiculous and suggestive names for fireworks. My perennial favorites usually include thinly veiled sexual innuendo. Like golden showers, flaming hot balls, or my all-time fav: 9 inch Mammoth repeater.

This year, we found some pretty tame names, so my favorite was called Let’s Get After It. As of now, I am in favor of letting more white trash name all of our American consumer goods. Learn him good educational supplies for the home school parents, I just puked in my uncle’s couch upholstery cleaner, I reckon it’s still good baby formula…the possibilities are really just endless.


You can read more about our excursion by reading her blog.

Cirrhosis of the brain

Thursday night, Craig, Caren, Laura, and Amanda went to the Vu. I had never been, so I was kind of worried that it might be kind of a bust.

OMG. It was so much freakin’ fun. The comedian was great, the drinks were ok, I danced my ass off, and I was there with the most beautiful boy in ze world!

While coming back from the bathroom, a scantily-clad girl caught my eye across the smoke-filled bar. We can call her ‘A’. She came over, and after 30 seconds, I found out that 'A' was bisexual, had watched Craig and me dancing, and thought that “two guys together were hot.” By the end of the night, she made it very obvious that she wanted to come home with me.

She was also pissed that I was with a guy. Seriously—she was incredulous that I was gay. She was frickin’ hella cute, and I was totally baffled and flattered. Hot-Drunk-Bisexually-Aggressive girl, where were you for the first 19 ½ years of my straight life? Jesus-tapdancing-Christ. Craig got really jealous, it was sooo cute. Craig said that although he had never hit a girl before, he was about to “ass-punch that uppity hussy.”

Ok, so I made that quote up.

Anyway, the night ended with all 5 of us being too drunk to drive home, so Craig and I decided to walk back to my house. Somewhere in the process of crossing the quad, I decided that it would be a good idea if I took off all my clothes except my white boxers (aah!—see-through) and run through the sprinklers at 2AM. The shit that happens in the summer…

Of course I had to be at work at 7:30AM on Friday, but my debilitating sleep deprivation didn’t stop me from having some noisy ‘afternoon delight’ (::skyrockets in flight::) on my lunch break.

Last night I went to the South Farm picnic and drank some beer with Nick, Laura Donelly, and Blake. We played volleyball for like 2 hours, and I repeatedly spiked the ball in my ex-TA’s face (the same one that talked to his mom on the phone during class—“No mother, I have to go. Yes, yes. I will call you back.”) It was just too fucking funny.

I watched some Home Movies last night with Craig and tonight, after he is done with MMe Butterfly, we are going to SoCo to see his friend Jeff who is DJing and then to Shattered for some drunken debauchery.

My liver has currently escaped from my body and is cowering behind my bed. Now excuse me, I have to go show him who is boss.

OMG. So tired. I was at work today from 7:30AM to 5:30PM. I have corn pollen and sweat stuck in my eyebrows and ears. (gross face)I guess I shouldn’t be complaining, because at least I am making a shit-load of money. And I promised my parents I would stop donating plasma, so there goes $200+ a month in cash income I was counting on. Sweet, sweet plasma money.

I have been so busy with work lately, I have all but stalled my summer side projects: practice and learn as much literature over the summer, and hella read-up on my publications so I will pick one sweet research project for next summer. But, whatev.

I am going to the Vu tonight with Craig, Caren, Laura, and some other straight girl. Should be fun. Later tonight I have to prepare a *side dish* for the South Farm picnic tomorrow evening. I am so goddamn domestic. Jeeshush!

Heard about some terrorist attack in England’s mass transit system today on the radio and my first instinct was to call my friend Robyn, who is in Wales (yes, I know it isn't really England). I need to find out if she is ok—although, that girl is resourceful, I know she would survive anything. To Robyn: I love you baby!

"What to do in a blackout"

Continuing with 'my-life-as-Norman-Rockwell-paintings' motif that I have going, I would like to bring your attention to this:

The lights went out at U-Place last week. Fortunately, we were already in bed.

a single coherent argument in favor of mandatory euthanasia

Such negativity today.

I won’t go into details because it would be hella inappropriate to discuss my work situation; but today it was ri-goddamn-diculous. I mean seriously, WWJD?

And when I got home after said ri-godamn-diculous-ness, some fat old man-cripple accosted me for chaining my bike to the railing on the stairway next to the door of my apartment building. He was really confrontational. It was all I could do to help from laughing right in his fat face.

“If you don’t move your bike, I am going to fucking get a bolt-cutter and throw it into the street.”

He then proceed to tell me that he had 2 knee replacements, as if I was supposed to feel sorry for him or something.

If I had my wits about me I would have said something to the effect of: “Maybe if you weren’t such a fucking fat-ass, your knees would still be working.”

Or remind him that I am riding my bike to prevent pollution. But he was too busy hobbling to his SUV and driving off in a hissy. (I know what Ms. Bees would have done…and it would not have been pretty.)

It was just too goddamn funny.

Although I was surrounded by all this negativity today—I overcame. Basically the fact that I am not an crotchety-old-man-fat ass, my knees work fine, and I am dating the most gorgeous man in the world, was enough to propel me through said negativity into a land filled with sparkles and sequins. Rainbows and smiles. I love being a ‘mo.

Craig and I went to play mini-golf last night. Unfortunately for him, I have been playing some wicked croquet the past couple weeks…so I dominated his ass! He shot an 89, and I shot an 80, so basically I bent him over and made him my bitch. Figuratively and…well, you get the picture.

I am so relieved that he is back. Tonight we are going on a picnic, ala my cooking. This afternoon I was running around like a little girl. “I don’t have any balsamic vinaigrette, arugula, or kirsch,” I lamented as I swept back the stray hairs from around my face, and wiped my hands on my matronly, floral printed apron.

Ok, so maybe I didn’t say that…but I do like cooking, and I am not apologizing for that. So there.

After dinner I think we will make Dancer in the Dark into a drinking game. Every time Bjork runs into a wall or a piece of furniture we will have to take a shot. So basically, we’ll get through the first 20 minutes and then be sloshed. Afterwards, in a state of drunken-scandalousness, we are going to go to Shattered and make absolute fools of ourselves.

I need to go--I have to put the pork tenderloin in the oven to bake for the Jamaican pork-tomato sandwiches, caramelize the raspberries for the poached peaches and vanilla ice cream dessert, and put the final touches on my bell pepper, cucumber, and goat-cheese appetizers. Bye love!

Nage ainsi dans l'espace

Craig got back last night after his 4 weeks in Vienna.

And, to salvage what little decorum I have left, all I will tell you is this:

My frenulum hurts so bad (and no Manda not that one—the frenulum in my mouth).