Sharp Like A Duck, Babe!

Automating My Internship

2007-06-27T13:14:00.000-04:00

My internship this summer is at NYU medical school, much to my amusement. My mandatory ID, bright purple and official-like, basically identifies me as a med student, which is just the most untrue thing it could say. I doodled and cell-phone-gamed my way to a B- in high school bio and never looked back.

The job itself is slightly more appropriate, as I'm with the psychology department. Psych is something I'm majoring in and enjoy and all that good stuff. But damn, is this job boring. Here is a summary of my weekly activities:

Lit Reviews: compile a spreadsheet that's basically the abstracts of a bunch of articles (which I found myself on the Ovid databses) on various traumatic brain injury-related topics;

Labelling: Go through testing archives, use sharpie to hide everyone's name, and then cover it with a cheapo printed label with their secret ID number;

Filing: like the lit reviews, but instead of PDFs and computer searching, I have to comb through a backlog of physical journals dating back to before I was born;

Observation: quietly sitting in the back of a room while patients individually, silently do worksheets designed to improve cognitive function;

Photocopying: eponymous.

Now, let's go through how I could automate this with just a little programming skill and some moxie:

Lit Reviews:
- First, have a bot of some sort do the ovid search.
- Then, have it download each PDF (this is a one-click downlaod situation.)
- Then, using something akin to Mac OSX summarize or MS Word autosummarize, get the data out of each PDF.
Labelling: Use the super-secret code name from the beginning on all documents. If the patient mistakenly writes his/her/hir own name, cover it up that day. More ad hoc, but less time overall.

Filing: this just shouldn't be a job, period. I understand my boss is busy, but it might behoove someone who collects a lot of physical media like scholarly journals to file upon completion.

Alternately, journals should take to publishing ONLY by e-mailed PDFs, so that people would print out the articles relevant to them and ignore the rest. This would save the world paper and me a lot of time.

Observation: I actually like this okay, but the ratio of learning-about-patients to sitting-around-bored is kind of all whacked out, and thus this is sort of not worthwhile. Some sort of multimedia case-study system might be more relevant (video interviews, test results, comparison charts, whatever.)

By the way, people who write scholarly case studies should really make an effort to make them interesting. I'd love to get a New Yorker profilist in here with our tape recordings and a textbook.

Photocopying: Okay, this one's a little too people-powered. Robot arms, maybe?

So, there you go. Clearly, I'm not necessary here and should be spending the summer frolicking through parks and writing epic novels about lesbians. It's okay; I'll show myself out.

2007-05-31T20:57:00.001-04:00

I'll bite, Violent Acres Catchphrase Contest...

"Acre? I barely even know 're!"

2007-03-26T01:21:00.000-04:00

Actually, totally lied last post.

read this.

2007-03-21T15:34:00.000-04:00

Honestly, I can't think this much. I can't even think enough to make a TumbleLog.

If you really must see my zeitgeist, however, here are some articles I read.

An Open Letter to A Man With Dreadlocks

2007-01-25T02:23:00.000-05:00

(*)

Dear Justin,

I am writing this note to you via blog because I am in a different state than where I met you. Also, I'm sort of ashamed to go back in there. You are very unlikely to read this.

Anyway, I'd like to thank you. Not only for catching me, or for being less than a third as sketchy as you looked, but for, well, doing your job. It hurt, a little, of course. And it's not like you did anything special, far as I could tell. It was totally routine for you.

But it means a lot to me. You were there for me when I finally took advantage of the teenaged free pass to do things both entirely out of character and relatively permanent, at the tender almost-adult age of 19.

I know y'all probably thought I was drunk, what with it being 3 in the morning and my subsequent fainting spell, but I was totally sober (unless you count the natural high of song and dance), and had given this quite a bit of thought. Ever since I discovered the concept, I'd randomly touch my right ear while walking down the street, or in class, or on an airplane (whereupon I would almost knock over the soda of the Asian fellow next to me, with elbow room being the way it is in economy class).

I guess I knew that if it ever happened, it would have to be both impulsively and alone. I mean, it's not really impulsive if you think, at 11 pm, "I should do this after the movie!", keep it in the back of your mind for four hours, and then do it. But four hours without the internet to procrastinate me is like four weeks in real time, or something. And as for alone... well, I mean, look at me, then look at the gaggle of 22-year-olds getting matching Celtic knots in the other room. Can you spot the differences in this picture?

What I really intended to say, and I haven't said yet, is that I totally love it. It feels so cool. It reminds me that I am independent and can do stuff without my mom (in both the "whee I'm a grown up" and the "watch out you're gonna fuck it all up" ways, which is perfect). I barely feel it, except sometimes when the collar of my coat or the back of my pillow brushes against it, and I get a small rush of "gosh I'm groovy." I clean it twice a day--it's like a pet, what with teaching me responsibility, but it can't hide under my bed. Also, I think it makes me look older, which is crucial when you're almost 20 and you look about 12. (Y'all didn't card the damn drunk B&Ters. Just saying.)

Anyway, I've totally drifted into stuff you wouldn't care about reading. Also, you're likely on drugs, so you don't have the best attention span, so I should wrap it up. The point is: Thank you. I'd tip you more, if I dared go back down there.

Sincerely,
That Girl With Small Ears Who Totally Passed Out

(*) The picture, taken with my built in iSight camera, is reversed. It is on the right.

Best. Paragraph. Ever.

2006-12-19T03:13:00.000-05:00

One other, very very subtle point is related to God’s workflow. It seems illogical, in a sense, to create trees (the third day) before one has created the sun (the fourth). It is thus funny to imagine God finishing up his forest and then realizing that there’s something missing to make it actually work. Omniscient Gods should not need the expression “hindsight is 20/20."

-Me. who the hell else would dare?

That's What I Want (Money)

2006-12-13T19:15:00.000-05:00

So, in my effort to procrastinate from finals, I somehow managed to Become Famous.

Seriously, though, I wrote a quickie "guest post" for a blog called Adult ADD and Money, because I am almost an adult and I was thinking a lot about money last night.

So, go read that! And anyone who came here after reading that, any advice? And enjoy being here.

p.s. see how I reversed the order and parentheticals on the Beatles song? Gosh, I'm clever.

Clearly, not Getting anyThing Done

2006-12-11T19:54:00.000-05:00

Last day of classes for my third fucking whole semester of college! I have a ten page paper, a 5 page paper, and two major exams. And yet, I am not working on those. I am not cleaning my filthy, filthy room. I am blogging! Woot!

Today's topic is: productivity. (ha!)

I am an avid reader of lifehacker, for no particular reason. It's not that useful to me--a lot of DYI stuff I can't use, a lot of windows stuff I can't use, a lot of grown-up stuff I can't use. But clearly, it has taugt me a lot. Under the tutelage of this website I occasionally read, I have implemented a whole mess of tools that admittedly make my life easier, though I use that ease for less-than-productive means. Here are some things that changed my life:

Quicksilver: This mofo is so useful that I keep a copy on a flash drive and install it on every single lab computer I visit, which is a lot, as I work in the labs and try to procrastinate less by going to the labs. I don't even know why I love it so much. I just... I mean, google it. there's some eloquent lovefests out there.OS X only, suckas

Google Calendar: Look, everyone on the planet could use a calendar system, because it's useful to see chunks of time laid out like that, and it's a place to write down things like "review session" and "doctor's appointment" and "class." Google's is the prettiest. Also: synced with Quicksilver. God, computers are cool.

Firefox: The thing has extensions! You can basically customize it to your every whim! I mean, what more do you need in teh internets?
Ta-da Lists: Free online todolists in the hizzy. Here is example of my current todo list. Also, I have been using the associated Dashboard Widget. That part is OS X Only, suckas, but the rest is internetz.

The concept of "Getting Things Done": So, GTD is one of those guru-esque self-help books that spawns a marketing empire, but the concept is simple and easy to find on free websites like 43 Folders: Categorize stuff. Make folders for your e-mail, one for things to work on soon, one for things you'll need way in the future, and one for things to work on somewhere between those times (and then, anything immediate, you do and then delete). Break up tasks into lots of smaller tasks, and then treat the next tiny task as a "next action" and do it, well, next. Keep a physical "inbox" of papers to which you need to see. It all makes a lot of sense. The internet has like five bug-gillion tools and AppleScripts and freeware and shareware and tips and tricks and egg-timers, but each person can sort of implement their own system. Which, I guess, is what I'm doing.

That's probably not the only things I use, but that encompasses pretty much everything I've used today (including the egg-timer). Now, I can totally check off "blog this list," and then I think I'll do a time-based dash and clean as much of my floor as I can before 9:00. Maybe I'll even find my missing glove!

Schoolhouse

2006-11-28T08:11:00.000-05:00

Here is my schedule for next year, as it stands:

.MW. 11:00AM-12:20PM; RELI 489 - Black Religious and Urban History: Migration and Transformation
.MW. 01:10PM-02:30PM; RELI 284 - Magic and Religion in Latin America
.MW. 02:40PM-04:00PM; PSYC 213 - Research Methods in Social Psychology
.TR. 10:30AM-11:50AM; PSYC 268 - Organizational Psychology.

Hopefully, possibly, I'll drop 489 and 268 to take Psychopathology and the Philosophy of Religion, but honestly, I'm pretty happy with this. Nothing before 10:30, nothing after Thursday at noon (that means no Friday)... this is damn near a perfect schedule, actually. Maybe I won't change. I should talk to my advisor. Or my mother.

p.s. RAWK

Wherein I Dorkily Attempt To Join A Subculture I Oughtn't

2006-11-27T15:22:00.000-05:00

So, because sometimes I get into subculture blogs and read them compulsively, I've lately been browsing the archives of Body Modification blogs (often NSFW). Now, the whole "suspension" thing seems painful and humiliating and potentially permanently damaging, and scarification sounds needlessly crass, and why the HELL would you put metal in your vagina, but tattoos, unfortunately, can be pretty. Thus, I present to you, a list of tattoos I would get if I were so inclined:

*A strand of DNA (as pictured, but prettier) with the words Arthur, Elaine, Charles, Evelyn, Peter, Robin, and Elisa written on various nucleotides, because they're my closest genetic relatives. I guess I'd leave room for any future biokids, too. This would go across my lower back.

*A potrait of my teddy bear, Oggie(1), in my underarm, because that's where he sleeps.

*the Cheerios Logo, I don't know where.

*The electromagnetic visible spectrum, as it is both a rainbow for gayness and pretty for fun! Maybe somewhere on my back.

*The Hebrew word Yehudi (יהודי), because it is the etmylogic root of the word "Jewish" but, in many biblical texts, carries more of a sense of ethnic identity than of religious, which is what I am: an ethnic Jew. On my arm like a holocaust survivor? Or would that be crass? If so, then maybe on my wrist, so I could hide it under a watch.

*My surname (Shapiro), maybe in a foreign alphabet (Hebrew and Japanese are pretty), on the back of my neck.

*The (regular) alphabet, as an armband tattoo.

*Some sort of Significant Quote on my upper back. (I tried to think of one, but I all I came up with was "Very like a whale" from Hamlet, and why permanently mark myself as fat?)

So, what did this exercise prove? Nothing, except 1) I'm a nerd and 2) I probably shouldn't get a tattoo.

(1) Jesus H. Christ, my sister literally took 100 pictures of herself with my iSight camera in the like 3 days I was home for turkey. Also 15 of the cat. Do you have any idea how tedious it is to delete 100 photos of my sister making a "thug" sign with her hands? (I saved a few good ones.) Someone (mom and dad) better get her a digicam soon.
Oh, and that so wasn't the point of the footnote. The POINT was to say: No, my teddy bear does not wear a yarmulke. It used to be a Yankees cap, but the brim came off and only half the N of the logo is left. He also used to wear the pinstriped shirt. His name is Oggie like Yogi Berra, as pronounced by an infant.

In related news: I <3 my family, and wish I wasn't allergic to my apartment (and Frankie's!) so I could actually look forward to going back home.

I am THISCLOSE to being home for thanksgiving...

2006-11-20T05:33:00.000-05:00

...so pardon the urgency?

Yes, I did make a YouTube video out of a time lapse of me playing on my computer for an hour. I used this program to make it, after spending a few hours downloading freeware from that site (some other favorites: Burn, Bullet, Name that iTune, Sidenote, and Check Off--if you have a mac I strongly encourage you look into them). I also have two other videos up, but feel free to never ever look at them. I'll take them down as soon as I have some other interesting things made. (Me + my little sister + a cat + my video camer may well lead to madness.)

Earlier today, I added up the time commitment of my television shows, and, if I count half-hour networks as 20 minutes and hour networks as 40, I've got 6 1/3 hours of television every day. If I spent those hours at computer work, I'd have an extra 47 dollars a week, which might well cover my buying tshirts online habit, if not my other clothing or electronics. But no, why do something practical like that? Also, as a trainee, the max I can do is like 5 hours a week, which I well and covered this past one. (I also did 8 hours for the theater department, which needed a few extra hands what with two major shows going up. Yeah money.)

Don't think I don't know that it's 5:42 in the morning. I can't sleep. I'll probably just wander over to the gym as soon as it opens and make myself tired, if you know what I mean. I didn't exercise all last week, because of laziness and rain (I have Rain Affective Disorder or something, swear to god) and my weight is going up and I have to go to the doctor over break and what if I'm really high and mom makes me go back to fat camp? (let the record show that it will never, ever be fully my decision to go back. Even if I tell you so, I'll still be bitterly contemplating what I could get done in New York. It's stress, man, and the rain.)

Ooh! I forgot the key point of this post, which was: LESBIAN ANIME. Fansubbed. On YouTube. Involving some sort of boarding school/lesbian cult with an abnormal number of women with shortish blue hair. That one who rides horses is my favorite, but I also like Etolie-sama. That other one, though, Kenjou? Is a rapist, and I wish someone would bring that up. Because she's a creepy evil rapist who keeps trying to hurt little Hikari-chan and her stupid girlfriend just stands behind her and nods and takes baths with her while plotting evilly. And still they're on student council! what kind of a world is this? There are so many tricky issues of consent in this, actually--in the early episodes, Shizuma kind of has a mesmerizing effect on Nagisa, and like Nagisa couldn't move, so who knows if Nagisa actually wanted to kiss her? (She did. but what if she hadn't?) Also, the best friend character is a creepy stalker, and you will never convince me otherwise, show, no matter how sympathetic you try to make her.

Nobody cared about that paragraph, and I humbly apologize. Gomen, or whatever.

(Oh, man, I had the intensest dream last night about Power Rangers, in a seedy motel in Brookyln, and Jason refused to come out until Tommy/Billy (they were the same person?) tricked him, and they were happier for it, except Tommy/Billy wanted to maintain their independence, but no matter who they hit on they ended up in Jason's bed. There were also female counterparts, but the males were more vivid, and my dad was there, but not being gay? Once I had a dream where dad was gay and he had a beautiful sterile apartment full of antiques and art, and Le and I visited like once a week. That's neither here nor there.)

someone has an exam in two days

2006-11-08T02:02:00.000-05:00

Okay, seriously, am I the only person who literally SQUEES when watching clips from this show? Swear to god, it's worse than kittens. If my lesbians in my novel are half as squee as these two, I'll be soooo set. (natch, I'm developing crushes on my characters. Mostly the slightly butch and bullying, overly pedantic trial lawyer who is a reformed playah embarking on her first commitment. Possibly because her name is Logan, just like my boycrush. I bet she could lift me up. That would be cool. I could fly, like on Heroes.

Also attractive: Kate Walsh. I should find a copy of that movie where she and Sandra Oh are lovers.

2006-11-06T00:11:00.000-05:00

Yeah, so, I'm doing that thing. Thus, I sincerely doubt I'm going to blog a lot this month. Not that I blogged a lot last month, or any month since, oh, 2005. But still, I'm giving a heads-up this time. My novel is about a meek lesbian, her overbearing jockish girlfriend, another lesbian who is a rabbi, and maybe a doctor and a party planner, eventually. Look for my userprofile under "crayolarabbit," where you'll see a nice one-paragraph excerpt.

Also happening this month is NaBloPoMo, which I might do next month, to make it up to y'alls. There are no prizes next month, but whatever, the sense of satisfaction is all I need.

In other news, I just wrote 2124 words in 50 minutes. So in your FACE.

I also am very good at religion--I'm doing well in my classes for the first time since like high school or something. And also, it's consuming my brain--my characters keep talking about hermeneutics and the importance of ritual and Leviticus. I thought I was getting out of that by not writing my novel about the gay boy in a Christian cult (which is sometimes a Scientologist cult, and sometimes involves a Russian fellow seducing him, and sometimes involves a swimming pool). That'll be my next year, I reckon.

Is "The Hermeneutics of Relationships" a really dumb title? Am I obsessed with that word? What about teleology? Or... anyway, if you can think of some word that has to do with religion and say "of Relationships" and make it a beautiful chick lit title, let me know.

A Musing

2006-10-18T20:11:00.000-04:00

I do not walk home from the gym. I swagger.

I realized recently that the release of endorphins from exercise makes me feel superior, arrogant, and powerful. Even when I've done a lame pussy-workout compared to the majority of the room, I feel like I could fuckin' lift them in the air and spin them as a Globetrotter might a small orange basketball. And afterwards, I'm far less nervous about checking out girls in the locker room (though they've all seemingly mastered the art of towel-changing, a feat I'm so bad at that I tend to change in the wheelchair bathroom stall so I can flail in peace). I John-Wayne my way into the store, and when they don't have my food, I get the urge to stick the small Asian clerk's head in a toilet.

And then, I wondered--if acting like a jock in one way (working out) makes me want to act like a jock in others (bullying, ladies), could I find a biological explanation for other cliquish stereotypical behaviors? Is it endorphins's fault all along, not violent TV or whatever?

And then I couldn't think of other examples, but wanted to turn John-Wayne into a verb on my blog, so I posted about this anyway.

Post-partum depression.

2006-10-01T18:08:00.000-04:00

Today feels so incredibly dreary. I didn't manage to drag myself out of bed till 3 pm, which is terrible because I have to write a seven page paper by 4 pm tomorrow, and now it's 6 pm and I have done NOTHING of value.

I know, empirically, that it's just the post-play blues funk reggaeton (not that last one), but all I can really feel is sad and useless. I really _want_ to have rehearsal, you know? I like those kids. They're good people. They wrote me a nice note, which got all bent and folded because I was not quite myself yester-eve.

This play took a good physical toll, too. I've gained two pounds, burned my left thumb on a hot drill, stabbed the heel of my right hand with a different sharper drill, and gotten giant bruises on my left knee and right elbow after falling down. I also may or may not have acted retarded in front of people I have to know for a long time.

Whatever--the play was a success, it ran smoothly except for Thursday-night-about-which-I-shall-not-speak-ever-again, people enjoyed it (including my dad! who likes nothing!), knock wood it solidfied my reputation as a good stage manager, and double knock wood I made lasting acquaintanceships.

... I'd really rather a headache than this existential angst.

Procrastination is More Important Than Knowledge

2006-09-17T13:00:00.000-04:00

I am so incredibly bad at getting things done (and not just the official productivity system Getting Things Done tm. I mean actually doing shit).

I spent all of yesterday watching downloaded episodes of "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" (best show EVER! Anyone with iTunes, download episode 2-5, Mac Bangs Dennis' Mom), and reading an odd combination of blog archives: personal finance blogs, which made me want to start an IRA or at the very least get some laddered CDs up in here; personal development blogs, which made me want to start waking up at 6 in the morning to work out, then make money from my hobbies and my six-figure-hits blog about a topic that hasn't yet been covered and that I'm an expert in; literary agent blogs, which, contrary to the text of the blogs, made me want to write a novel; and dominatrix blogs, which made me want to make that novel pornographic. Among other things.

And then, at 2:30 am, I realized I'd done nothing of value, so I cleaned my room, separated my recycling from trash and threw it all out (which is quite an accomplishment, as I had the Garbage Stack that ate Nebraska over in the corner), did the dishes (nothing like sparkly silverware), and packed a bag for my all-day library extravaganza starting at 10 am!

Well, it's 10 am Pacific time, so perhaps I'm not as disappointing as I thought. But I have rehearsal from 7-10, and a thing I wanna go to at 5... so I better get on that bible thing.

Final thoughts: I know Jasmine is a very important part of the show I am working on, but by golly, I love that Belle. ("Heeeereee's where she meets Prince Charming, but she won't discover that it's him till chapter 3" is just such a preferable sentiment to "I'm a bratty princess and I complain about living a privledged life with a PET TIGER, for crying out loud." I mean, seriously! I would not be unhappy if I had an adorable and loving tiger! I have a tiger for my phone wallpaper right now and he's adorable and sitting in a pile of rocks. Burn on bright, y'all.)

'Sup.

2006-09-12T19:26:00.000-04:00

I am early for my rehearsal. For some reason I read 8 o'clock as 7 o'clock, but for some other reason I also decided to bring my bible, my guide to reading the bible properly, and my laptop, so I'm set for like ever. The bible, you see, is pretty much my homework, or part of it, every night, as I have two religion classes that focus on Judeo-Christianity and on interpretations of the Bible specificially. I am disproportionately pleased by it, despite the small text and long geneologies and repetitive stories and constant reminders of how poorly I uphold my covenant with YHWH. After all, "Literary and religious traditions from the pre-exilic period are radically transformed in this exilic and post-exilic period as the people shape a social and religious identity that distinguishes them cuturally and ideologically from their neighbors." Am I right? Ey, ey?

My professors are quite the bunch. My first professor I saw this year was a surprisingly un-ugly young lady (she can't be much over 30, I'd say) who teaches me Modern Christian Thought. She's very smart and makes me think very hard. Later, I see lord Voldemort. Seriously, my Social Psych professor has the bald head, snake-like features, and general creepiness of Ralph Fiennes in the 4th HP movie. He is, however, an engaging professor and whatnot, so I don't really mind. The next day I start with I have a kindly balding fellow who over-uses the word "extraordinary" and does that old Jewish person thing of occasionally slipping into a Jewish language, but with formal ancient Hebrew instead of bastardized yiddish. After him I see a unremarkable middle-aged man, sort of fat and pseudo-jolly, who repeats to me concepts I learned in high-school Astronomy. Then I have fitness, which means "running around a track and then walking after one lap because I have particularly unhappy lungs."

My stage managing duties are almost as fulfilling as finishing my reading assignments is. I get to sit and watch people act, correct them on their lines, moderate discussions between various behind-the-scenes folks who don't particularly agree with each other's visions, and generally feel very powerful and dominant in a very non-agressive or active way. I also am trying to take on more Second Stage-ly responsibilities (though this is harder with our bloated staff), and of course I applied for a couple other jobs, which, if I don't get them, you will never hear of again.

But do I have anything _interesting_ to say? This is basically an update post, a letter I would write to my mom if I didn't have a cell phone, AIM, and e-mail with which to live-update my life to her. I should analyze something, or make some sort of joke. God, this is so much pressure.

Okay, an observance: I've been realizing, more and more, how firm a grasp of my identity I have. I mean, obviously, I've been obsessing about who I am for ages, and write epic analyses and fill out countless memes (I actually fill out of a lot of them and don't post them anywhere because I guarantee you that you don't care) and go to a lot of therapy and fill out profiles on various social networking sites, but I never thought I'd actually have a consistent and entrenched point of view, like I'm pretty sure I do (rhymez). I wonder if all the navel-gazing lead to this stability of image, or if it was an obstacle that I've only recently overcome in order to start understanding. Also, am I a chicken or an egg? And when I fall in a forest, and nobody hears me, am I still singing Disney songs?

No! No enchilada!

2006-09-01T18:38:00.000-04:00

because I don't like cheese, that's why.

Tomorrow morning at 8 am, my father will wake me up and 83% of the girl who sulked back to the city back in May will return to the bustling metropolis of Middletown. I don't know how I feel about that.

On the one hand, I'm setting it up so that I will ROCK this year. I'm psyched for classes, I got a SM gig, I'm doing some gay thing this weekend, I have many half-assed plans and ambitions, and I got a shrink up there, so if I am sad again someone will be on my case about it.

On the other hand, I'm really comfortable in my home. For example, my bed. My bed was custom made for me when I was 2 years old ish. We went to the store and I sat on every bed and I saw this one and said "This one! This is my big pink bed!" (It had pink sheets.) We then tried every matress in the store and I selected the second-hardest available. They tried to coax me out of it, but I wanted that one and am stubborn like a duck. To this day, I am only truly comfortable on a matress that can hold up a glass while I'm lying there next to it.

Another for example is my books. I am sort of a book-a-holic (addited to bookahol). I don't necessarily read as much as I used to on paper, per se, but I spend most of my non-reading free time on the Internet, which involves as much technical "reading" as a book, and also I spend lots of time on quasi-educational sites, like about news or science. But the point is, I only get to bring a limited selection of my massive catalog of books, both read and unread. And I'm a big "comfort reader," as in I reread completely random books from my past and it makes me feel better. For example, yesterday on the toilet, I was compelled to read Maus. How is that comforting?, you might ask. It's about the holocaust! And a crazy old person! With mice! But it was important, and it was the only thing that possibly could've helped. Now, what if that'd happened when I was at school, and I hadn't brought Maus? I would've remained unsatisfied! So I have to anticipate the whims of Future-Shapiro, and I have to bring a good selection of books I haven't read, to feed the imagination.

Another example is the cat. However, I refuse to become a cat-blogger, because it is a cliché.

And finally, there is my mommy. Her leg hurts a lot, and she limps and complains and refuses to use her cane and makes me rub her leg and is seriously contemplating switching to Yiddish so that she can fully embody Walter Matthau in The Sunshine Boys (ENTAAAH!), but she's a comforting presence, what with her having birthed me and all. She also is probably the only person on the planet willing to listen to me ramble about my new (incredibly fuzzy and incomplete) theory about how we can totally interpret the Book of Genesis to confirm Evolution, thus ending all that hullaballoo.

All right, guys. If you need me, I'll be in the Middle of Town.

Losing My Religion. And Weight.

2006-08-20T23:01:00.000-04:00

Do I not look HOT? I am 25 pounds lighter than I am in that picture two posts ago. I am strong and energetic and eating on just this side of starvation, and am not particularly unhappy about it. Mind, I'd LOVE a pizza, but I figured out a way to eat a slice tomorrow without fucking life up. And I tasted an awesome fat-free brownie today. Who can ask for anything more?

I'm not going to bore you any more by talking about calories this and fat that and steps here and activity there. Instead, I wanna talk about religion. Which is also boring. The top story today, in my mind, is surprisingly not related to a) Muslims who hate me for being Jewish b) Christians who hate me for being gay or c) the three-four people of varying degrees of faith I met and actually managed to get along with at Fat Camp. Instead, it's about the Shakers.

First of all, I'm immensely amused by their real name--the United Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing. Because really, doesn't that apply to all Christians? And Jews for Jesus? Second of all, I'm immensely impressed by their ability to have survived for 259 years without reproduction. Can you imagine converting to Shakerism? I can't imagine ever being convinced enough of ANYTHING like that to officially declare myself a member and go through rights, not even something logical and popular and perfect for me (i.e. a religion that believes in unhealthy eating and VH1). But, if I think about it, I'm sort of half-tempted to convert just to be The Last of the Shake-hicans. I'd be trivia forever. "The last surviving member of the "Shaker" religion, she died in 2099." "Who is Laura Shapiro, Trebek-bot 5500?" Of course, this Jeopardy 2155 fantasy goes directly against the Shaker principle of putting the collective over the individual (see the anecdote in here about the Sabbathday Lake cemetery), but nonetheless, I've vaguely entertained it.

I'm so psyched for "Modern Christian Thought" and "The Old Testament," but now I kind of regret not taking any Islam classes yet, what with the freaking holy war. I guess Old Testament is a good start, though, on the Israel conflict, while Modern Christian Thought will get me in the mind of the US government. But it's the Lebanese and the Iraqis from whom I feel most alienated. Soon, though, I will understand them better than they do themselves! Bwhaahahahah!

Fat Camp Update

2006-08-12T14:49:00.000-04:00

I am so bored by fat camp. The food is very bad and the exercise is constant, and on top of all that we are supposed to be enthusiastically participating in some sort of "Color War" while all I want to do is obsess online about the real freaking war in The Holy Land and shit. I have, however, lost some weight (8.5 pounds so far!), acquired a new nickname (Shappy, which sounds best in a North Dakotan accent because they say their "a"s funny), made new facebook friends (facebook facebook ad infinitum), and climbed a mountain. Also played sports and shit, which is fun. Did I mention the horrible food? You've never seen chicken this dry. This chicken just went through the spin cycle on Delicates, and it is D-R-Y dry dry dry. And I missed the pudding last night. And now I have to go swimming, which is why I'm in the library blogging, of all time-consuming things. Oh, and I went to Canada and got rained on and bought an outdated Expos hat post-semi-ironically, but I can't wear it because it's blue and the Color War is Blue versus Orange and I'm Orange and nothing rhymes with orange (unless you count doorhinge, Frankie's dad always says).

So, okay, I should go swim, or cheer people from the sidelines and say I can't swim because I have a leg cramp (totally not a lie). But before I do, I'm going to share my Past and Present essay, which was a mandatory part of the system of obtaining privledges like phone time, computer time, and trips (like to Canada). It's an essay about My Food History, or, Why I Am At Fat Camp Now, Even Though I've Been Fat A While. My group therapy cohorts thought it was the funniest thing ever, and called me very sarcastic and a dry wit. I felt bad, because theirs were kind of sad and they are all fatter than me, technically, but I am still counted as fat because I am short. One girl is shorter than me and that's fun, but she's 23 so I don't get to feel superior at all. The point is, My Fat History.

The first thing I did after being born (besides screaming myself hoarse, mind) was suck my mom's finger so hard, she says she feared it would come off in my mouth. I was certainly a good eater.
My family life was pretty great. My parents are of a fairly liberal, lenient sort. Most notably, they never forced me to eat anything I didn't particularly want to. Thus began my lifelong avoidance of all things vegetable, fruit, or, essentially, remotely good for me.
I was an active child--my mother describes an incident in which I ran wild about the house for two hours straight, finally collapsing in a heap. This is notable because at the time, I had a 103 degree fever.
My eating habits have always been a source of cafeteria conversation. It begins with me refusing a salad in the lunch line, or a friend acknowledging the lack of healthful component in my brown bag. It then becomes an incredulous chorus of "they NEVER make you?" and "No veggies at ALL?" Then I am compelled to list the foods I DO eat. This repeats itself each time I eat with someone new. At subsequent meals, I am peer-pressured to try new things, taunted by vegetables thrown unto my plate, and eventually, ignored, or treated as an irritation, a stubborn and unhealthy fool.
As I aged, so did my little sister. We were brought to parks together, and placed in various little league sports. It quickly became clear that while I was an enthusiastic and good-natured sportsman, she possessed actual athletic skill. Gradually, I ceded the arena of exercise to her sole provenance.
Suddenly, in fifth grade, I hit puberty. With that came blood, sweat, tears, breasts, and rapid weight gain. In addition, fifth grade was the first year we were allowed to wander the streets of New York to purchase our own lunches, and I became a regular customer at the candy shops of the neighborhood.
A pattern began to emerge, one that continues to this day--my mother would nag me about losing weight, and I would ignore her and eat Hostess and Hagen Daaz to excess. In 8th grade, mom begged me to join the fledgling school "running club", ostensibly because my sister was joining (of course) and wanted company. I eventually joined, and while I was never able to run, per se, for more than a minute at a time, I walked a couple miles twice a week and lost about ten pounds. Mom was thrilled--prouder of me than of my sister's 6 minute mile.
High school was a fairly neutral time, weight-wise. I regained the running club weight within a year or two, and each summer a new gym membership or exercise program was purchased for my eventual disuse.
Our nagging/eating pattern continued until the 12th grade, when a routine blood test (I was on a dermatological medication that required monthly testing) revealed disturbingly high insulin and testosterone levels. A few more test revealed it was nothing serious yet, but I was officially pre-diabetic and at high risk for a cadre of other diseases. By that time, however, it was time I headed out for college.
Naturally, college was not a great place to lose weight. I gained ten pounds my first semester, disturbing my mom and the doctor's greatly. I promised to find the gym second semester, but around February, I entered a significant depression. I took to sleeping all day (except for the occasional class) and watching illegally downloaded television and eating cookie dough all night. I regularly ordered an entire pizza (sans cheese, of course, I was still a weirdo) AND a 12" hero sandwich to wash it down. I was up to three hot dogs a day.
My parents took note, and as soon as I got home I was pumped full of anti-depressants, forced to actually visit a gym, and told that I should seriously consider coming here. I agreed to that proposal, because it's not like I enjoyed being 80 pounds overweight. I complied with the exercise, told my employer of my upcoming absence, and ate less, if not yet well.
And here I am.

Big Blonde And Beautiful, Minus Two

2006-07-22T03:22:00.000-04:00

Time for a "let's face it" moment. Let's face it, then: I'm fat.

No, I'm not morbidly obese; I would, in fact, not be accepted at Fat Pride type groups. But I am, technically, obese--Obesity means a BMI over 30, and mine is 32.5. I am quite technically, a fatty.

It's fairly obvious why--if you've met me for long enough to eat with me, you'll have noticed that I eat nothing but greasy/fatty/sugary/carby foods, and en masse. I also am a lazy bum, and I also have deep-rooted issues involving a recurring fear that people are coming to take my food away. The very first thing I did, after emerging from the womb, was suck on my mother's finger so hard she was afraid it would come off (she's doing much better, btw. She's home, using her cane, doing her physical therapy. She's very mopey, of course, but you would be too, if you were hit by a fucking truck).

The point is, then, that I'm taking action. Not because of the way I look--if you've met me, you'll have noticed that I hardly make a fuss over that. But rather, because of doctors. According to them (as if they're a massive entity, like the Borg), I am "pre-diabetic,", which is doctor-slang for "if you don't lose weight, you're going to get diabetes and have to take shots three times a day, you fatty." I have been this way since the 11th grade. I have also gained 35 pounds since the 11th grade, the majority of them during College, which was stressful and wherein I had Depression. (a Great Depression, in fact--my stock was SO LOW. Okay, metaphor over.) The point is, the doctors are all "man, why you even gotta do a thing?" the thing being "gain so much weight, idiot?"

So, I'm going to fat camp. I'll see you in a month. I leave you now with two jokes I thought up last night and facebook-messaged myself.

The first is re: this photo album, which contains two pictures of Frankie talking to her Nebraskan boyfriend on the telephone. The telephone is "tagged" with said boyfriends name. The story goes:

Some random guy from Omaha Nebraska is going to click on "View More Photos of Ben Sherman" and they'll see a blurry-ass picture of Frankie, and they'll click on the album to be all "what's up with this shit?" and they'll see "poo party? what the fuck? this chick is weird." And then, years later, we'll all be staying at the same hotel (with a pool) for Frankie and Sherman's Hott Wedding, and I'll be sitting by the pool and remark "isn't this a great poo party? They took the L and made my name," and they'll be like "You're from the Internet!"

It was funnier out loud.

The second is re: The Rapture, which is a pet topic of mine. One day, when I am a successful religion major, I would like to study the Rapture. My main sources would be Revelations and the Left Behind franchise and the play "The Faculty Room." I'd have fun.

1) The Rapture Where Nobody Came -- all are evil -- like that one passage about Sodom and/or Gommorah

2) The Really Subtle Rapture -- People mysteriously disappeared, missing persons cases never solved, turns out, they were with Jesus.

3) New York Is The Kingdom of Heaven -- Well, you know, Jesus can't be everywhere at once, so he uses his God powers to make all good people move to New York, and then takes it up, wholesale.

Important: With all the bad things happening in Iraq, Israel, Lebannon, Iran, North Korea, The Sudan, Rwanda, France, and Peoria, perhaps now IS the End Times and we just haven't bothered to declare it such. Of course, knowing TV (embedd Youtube Video of "Brink of War?"), they'd take till the literal end of the universe (The Big Bing) to declare it the Brink of Apocalypse.

I Want My Mommy

2006-07-14T02:35:00.000-04:00

Imagine one of these slamming into your mother.

Just imagine it. Imagine your mother innocently stepping out onto 1st avenue, holding her arm out for a taxi that didn't appear to be coming, when suddenly, she finds herself hurtling through the air? She sees the above-pictured monster stopping just ahead of her, and suddenly finds herself looking up a Circle of Faces. The faces are all looking at her leg, which is apparently in a position no leg should ever see. She realizes her back suddenly hurts like a bitch. She screams "I'm dying!" then starts reciting your father's cell phone number.

And then you hear all this six hours later, two days before your birthday. And you go to meet your mom in the ER and her eye looks like... well, the closest I can come is this, but slightly grusomer, and also, it's your mother (her eye is improving steadily. Every day it's a smaller patch of black. She says she's stopped caring, though, and prefers to focus on the broken rib pain). And she's strung out on morphine and her leg is in traction and, although a few days later she'll be strolling around with just a walker and three surgical scars (from where they put a titanium fucking rod in her leg), at the time we're talking wheelchairs, laptops, multiple operations.

Mom is not a great sick person--she's spent too much time with her hypochondriac mother and on medical websites (and, of course, that year in medical sciences grad school), so she's often second-guessing people and worrying about stuff. Her roommate, one day (it's been a rotating cast) had leukemia, and cancer is her kryptonite. Her previous roommate had mistaken her for a large African-American burglar.

Mom also is having her own major mommy issues right now--as I mentioned, her mom is basically impossible to communciate with right now, so as of right now, she [grandma] has no clue about mom's accident. And, of course, my mommy wants her mommy, but her mommy seriously can't leave the house, and would also freak out because hypochondriac agoraphobe, but would have to freak out silently and internally, because unable to speak.

The worst of it is, of course, my internship has decided that this is the week to make me the delivery girl. So I spend half my day walking through the sweltering heat through traffic-y Soho streets, to the Hamptons Film Festival office and to a Mailboxes, Etc. and to a deli to buy 4 liters of water (fucking heavy). And I'm doing all this, which is irritating enough when I don't have a hearty fear of cars, with a hearty fear of cars.

In conclusion, I wish mom were healthy, but if she were, I wouldn't need her right now. Catch-22, 23-skidoo, 24 is the most addictive show on television, 25 is the silver anniversary.

What's My Age Again?

2006-07-05T13:20:00.000-04:00

(My birthday is on Saturday, I expect presents, or at least like a quarter.)

My father's side of my family has always seemed to me more grown up than my mother's. Perhaps that's because his parents were doctors, professionals with advanced degrees, while mom's parents were scraping by with high school diplomas and gumption. Perhaps its because one of my dad's sisters lives in Colorado and the other wasn't married till I was like 8 (thus making her appear to be a sophisticated 20-or-30-something like I always wished I was), while my mom's sister lives four blocks from us and still acts like a twelve year old to my mom's sophisticated seventeen-year-old college freshman. Or perhaps it's because my paternal grandfather died when I was young, while my maternal relations continued on as pseudo-sick, complaining, elderly yiddish caricatures.

Whatever the reason, it's been quite reversed lately. Visits to my mom's childhood home are depressing and emotionally draining; my grandmother's Parkinson's has taken away all but her smallest movements or sounds, and so we crowd around her bed and talk at her in strained, almost condescending sing-song, retelling her stories she told us and glossing over the details of our lives. My grandfather, meanwhile, is in better physical shape (his recently-repaired broken ribs and ongoing heart difficulties nonwithstanding), but Grandma's illness is really getting to him. Late in June he celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary, though they'd known each other for much longer. Mom told me that he spent almost all day trying to get her to remember, but she was pretty unresponsive. And thus, he is acting out. He's always basically been like a jolly Jewish Santa Claus figure--when they used to babysit us, Grandma was the one nagging us about safety and worrying about nonsense in the kitchen while Grandpa played games and told jokes with us in the living room. Mom once told me she'd never seen him really angry. And now, he's become... cranky. He yells at everyone (except us). He's fired every geriatric aide we've hired to help carry Grandma around and stuff. He calls Mom a billion times a day to complain about the TV, the aides, the nurses, his medications, what have you. In sum, my mom's side basically consists of a bed-ridden silent sickster and a grumpy olod man.

My dad's side, however, is now overrun with little children. His mother, though not in perfect health, seems fairly vibrant and fine. My cousins are 14, 7, 7, and 3. Both my dad's sisters married blondish goyim men who like golf and fishing and hiking and outdoorsy stuff, in stark contrast to my father (or, indeed, his father, who, I realized, I refer to primarily as "dead grandpa"), who spends perfectly good mountain-climbing weather days indoors watching movies or visiting museums.

I could never go on a vacation with my mom's family, not even her sister's husband and kid (Holly, now... 15? I'm never sure, is severely allergic to milk, and that built on the inherent overprotective nervous nebbish in my aunt and uncle to make them a very anxious bunch even to dine with. Also, Holly, like me, had a bout of elective mutism in her youth, and enjoys writing and the theater, and was born a day after me [years later, obvi], and thus, with all that in common, I can never think of anything to talk to her about).

However, I just returned from a vacation with my dad's. MIreya, the 3-year-old, is angelic and unobtrusive and utterly cooperative. Every time she saw me she shouted "Laura!" with pure joy, except the one time she slipped and called me "Aunt Laura," because to her I more resemble the grown-ups than anyone in her generation. Her brother Kyle, the 15-day-older 7 year old, is brash and obnoxious and "difficult." He doesn't really like sports, and asked me a bunch of questions after he learned I was going to take astronomy ("How many moons are there, in total, in the universe?"). His parents are quick to judge and blame him for everything. Meanwhile, the younger 7 year old, Aidan, is another of those blond angelic kids. He has big eyes and plays baseball and tennis and weighs like ten pounds. His sister, Paige, the 14-year-old, is a champion gymnast and thus a bit physically stunted. She enjoys the Disney Channel, Grey's Anatomy, and sulking whenever her mom speaks. In sum, they are kids. They are young. They are they world. They are physically draining and emotionally inspiring and I wish I could be them again. I wish Grandma (maternal) could be like that again. I wish we all could be 3, splashing around in a Sesame-Street floatie, explaining "the box says Beauty and the Beast but Beauty is in Sleeping Beauty so the movie is called Belle and the Beast" to a spell-bound and indulgent crowd of one elder, six grown ups, and 2-5 other children.

man why you even got to do a thing

2006-06-15T18:10:00.000-04:00

Today I slept through work because I have trouble falling asleep. I called and said I was feeling a little queasy, so I'm going in tomorrow instead.

The other day, my job was to "make myspace friends." So I spammed a couple "groups" with "add me!" bulletins. I don't think no-one did.

Since Frankie blogged about my cat, indirectly, I find it necessary to mention that she is adorable, and watching me type with marked interest.

In other news,
see more

Scenes From An Internship

2006-06-08T17:46:00.000-04:00

Author's Note: I'm working two internships this summer, this one three days a week and the other two. This one is for a documentary production company that most recently completed a film on a gay performance artist/film-maker/pothead who some consider influential. It has otherwisedistinguished itself by being located in a giant, insect-infested loft, having tarp instead of walls [even in the bathroom], having been working on an absolutely retarded printer problem for three straight days, and generally being ridiculous in the vein of my summer 2004 job.

DAY 1
10:04 A.M.
I wake up. I am to be 5.1 miles from my house in 56 minutes.

10:17
I enter taxi-cab.

10:39
I exit taxi-cab, a disgusting 21 minutes early.

10:42
I discover the disgusting, roach-infested Chinese bodega around the corner. I vow never to return.

10:59
I enter. I am greeted by the PRODUCER. He is a close talker. If this entry were presented in Smell-o-Vision, it would be time for you to leave the room.

PRODUCER: Hey! Is it Laura or Lauren?
ME: Laura.
PRODUCER: Okay, Lauren. Hey, do you like webcams?
ME: lying Sure.
PRODUCER: Great! Okay, I need a list of, like, the best ones for a project. Did you bring a laptop? No? Okay, well, here's a computer you can use.

I go to the computer. It is from 1995.

11:39
PRODUCER: So, have you got a list?
ME: Yup!
It is a beautiful list, with ratings from PCMag.com and Macworld.com, specs from the website, and both list and third-party retailer prices.
PRODUCER: Great! Do any of them run on, like, Mac OS 9?
ME: (not in so many words) Well, no, because new products ceased to be developed for that system in March 2001, when OS X was released.
PRODUCER: Um, maybe you can make a list of old ones from, like, ebay?

12:24 P.M.
ASSISTANT enters. She does not smell.

ASSISTANT: Hey, Laura, when you're done with that, I have something for you.
ME: I'm done.
ASSISTANT: Great! So, here is a 4" binder of licenses, release forms, and general legal documents. Unfortunately. the indexes don't match the contents. If you could make a new table of contents, including random legal terms you've never heard before despite both your parents being lawyers, that would be great.
ME: ... sure.

1:45
I kill myself.

2:10
I realize their lunch policy is "go out whenever." Nonetheless, I do not leave.

3:15
How long do they need me, again?

3:45
ME: Um, I'm not quite done, but... I have to go. To a doctor's appointment.
ASSISTANT: Oh, okay. Well, you can finish tomorrow. But, just so you know, we need you like, from 10-6 most days.

DAY 2
8:45 A.M.
I am awoken by a pack of gazelles.

8:47
The pack of gazelles begins to blast "Jesus Walks" in my ear from my own laptop computer.

8:48
I threaten to eat the pack of gazelles. She continues to bounce around like a 16-year-old idiot.

9:15
I repeat the process of getting a taxi-cab, somehow managing to have been late again.

9:50
I am again early. I decide to have a candy bar from that godforsaken bodega.

10:01
PRODUCER: So, you have, what, an hour on that legal thing, right?
ME: Sure.

10:04
The transfer from the PowerMac 6200 to my PowerBook G4 has caused the document to drastically reformat itself. I kill myself.

12:39 P.M.
I finish the fucking legal thing.

1:25
I return from lunch, which I took at the nice pizza place across the street.

1:39
PRODUCER: Okay, I have a SLJ for you.
ME: What?
PRODUCER: Shitty Little Job. Anyway, here's my e-mail password. I need you to go through and see all the e-mails that have gotten bounced back to me in the past while, and then delete them from my address book.

1:50
PRODUCER: Oh, hey, do you like mailing lists?
ME: Sure.
PRODUCER: Okay, we need some, like, software that can make a mailing list easy to join from online or whatever.

2:35
I finish the mailbox thing.

3:21
I start the mailing list thing.

3:45
ASSISTANT: Hey, Laura? I have a contract here for you... what name would you like if you do any credited work on a film?
ME: Laura's good.
ASSISTANT: Okay. And, you're 3 days a week? How bout Tuesday Wednesday Thursday? Can I put that down?
ME: Since I can't tell you that I have to check with my other job, I'll just tell you Sure.

4:37
PRODUCER: Hmm, all that software looks kind of expensive. Do you like BitTorrent?

4:40
I download BitTorrent.

4:55
I have searched every single popular and comprehensive torrent search site. None of them have any mailing list software, thought I do contemplate dling Photoshop.

5:05
I turn to freeware sites.

5:10
I get scared of all the coding language (I don't speak Perl) and procrastinate.

5:50
I realize I can leave in 10 minutes. I buckle down.

5:59
ME: I found the perfect software! it's even free! Should I e-mail you the link?
PRODUCER: Actually, could you try to set it up, like a trial run, and then show me?

6:34
ME: Okay, I made you a detailed How To Install document and e-mailed it to you. I tried it on my computer, and it worked fine. Please let me go.
PRODUCER: Okay. Oh, wow, it's 6:30.

7:15
I realize that I've walked so far in the wrong direction that I'm two subway stations away from the one near work.

9:30
I fall asleep on the couch. Not for a nap, like I did a bunch in college, but for reals.

DAY 3
9:40 A.M
The gazelles enter, telling me that I've been asleep for 13 hours and that I'm late.

10:34
I arrive at work, having stopped at the disgusting bodega for breakfast.

10:45
ASSISTANT: Okay, so, here's a 3" binder of inane press clippings, mostly from art magazines. Now, anything from before 2001 goes in a new binder, except for stuff about Executive Producer, who likes to see his name in print. We need a whole Excel file for this, too.

11:04
One of the "press clippings" is a picture of Britney Spears naked. I am puzzled, then realize that perhaps Assistant is as gay as Producer. N.B. both gay as in homosexual and gay as in tarded.)

11:30
PRODUCER: Hey, do you like dogs?
ME: Sure.
PRODUCER: Okay, can you walk the director's puppy? It's not raining too hard, so you could even take him to the park and like throw the stick around.

11:34
The dog poos. Luckily, I have a tissue in my pocket, so I don't break the law.

11:40
The dog drags me to a park way in the middle of Chinatown.

11:50
I drag the dog back.

12:45 P.M.
I have been done with the excel document for 30 minutes. I decide to compulsively reformat it.

1:00
The guys behind me (who have spent the past 3 days working reallllly hard on fixing the printer) come back from lunch.
GUY A: So, you like hops?
GUY B: I like all kinds. I'm like a beer connoisseur. I didn't like it in high-school, but in college I went to this German beer garden, and it was just amazing.
GUY A: Cool. ... so you like Heinken?
GUY B: A little too watery for my tastes.
GUY A: Oh, no, man, someone told me once that when they make beers for importing to America, they make 'em less than they make for their own countries.
GUY B: That makes sense.

1:05
I go to lunch.

2:12
I create a wikipedia page for the documentary. I neglect to include that it is being sued by the Village Voice guy, because I am so sick of his name (fucking legal documents binder.)

3:30
Nobody is giving me anything else to do. Of course, that may be related to the way I still have the binder of stuff open and Cmd-Tab to the Excel document every time someone passes.

4:00
I start writing this.

4:30
Either blogger is down or their printer problems have spread to their wireless internet.

4:53
They fixed the printer! Nobody, however, has fixed blogger.

5:19
Blogger comes back! Unfortunately, it comes back at the very SECOND that Assistant picks up the phone that's on the same frequency as AirPort. I consider eating my own hand.

5:28
This "old stuff" binder has their pitches, which come in Film, Gay, Fashion, Music, Theater, and Urban Culture. An excerpt from each.
FILM: "[Artist] was also among the first filmmakers to practice guerilla filmmaking. He filmed whenever and wherever he could, and made the baroque [famous movie of his] on a budget of $300 dollars."
GAY: "Ever fabulous, [Artist] inspired the glam rock movement of the 80s, chronicled in Todd Haynes's recent film Velvet Goldmine."
FASHION: "[Artist] was the originator of thrift-shop glam and glitter rock. The bold, theatrical, and glitter-infused sense of style that informed his art inspired the glam-rock movement of the 70s."
MUSIC: "[Artist]'s innovative intertwining of sound and image on stage quickly became one of the true eminent artists of the avant-garde."
THEATER: "By fusing art and theater, [Artist] predicted performance art as a genre."
URBAN CULTURE: "[Artist]'s work has come back into the spotlight, 15 years after his death of complications from AIDS."

Worst. Week. Ever.

2006-04-27T01:07:00.000-04:00

Okay, exaggeration. But:

Last Thursday I woke up at 10:30 am with a VIOLENT case of the shivers. I ran over, turned off my fan, got an extra blanket, and fell back asleep. Then mom called to make sure I was going to class, and upon hearing of my predicament and my voice, demanded I take my temperature, which was a lovely tropical 101.5. And yet, I had a duty: I had to run the soundboard for a Rat-Pack based production of Hamlet at 8 pm sharp. So, I took mass quantities of advil, sat at my computer, and tried to work myself up to it. I arrived at the theater looking like hell and slept through most of the show except my cues.

Friday was pretty much the same, except I also had a terrible, terrible cold, which was returning from Wednesday. Luckily, I had a care-package of medicinal types things arriving, so I wandered over to the mailroom before it closed, went back home, slept it off a little, and did more Hamleting. The cold medicine helped, because

by Saturday, I was like all better, fever wise, and my cold was totes manageable. I rocked the two shows, and then I rocked the cast party, rite of passage style. That rite of passage, however, resulted in

another, morning-after style rite of passage, wherein I woke up with a splitting headache at 5 pm the next day. That ruined my plans of actually ever starting my psych and Russian papers, both due Wednesday, and I basically just shat around on the computer trying to make my head normal again all evening.

Then came Monday. Relatively innocuous, except a) no work on the looming papers and b) my computer stopped accepting charge from the wall.

Tuesday was... well, okay, I skipped class and just came to this computer lab (yes, now) and smashed out a ROCKING psych paper in 3 and a half hours, just in time to catch Veronica Mars. I missed the first few minutes because of a dance rehearsal in the lounge, the station cut out 2 minutes after one of the commercial breaks, UPN ran a weekly test of the emergency system at the awesome and heartbreaking ending, but WORST was some stupid selfish kid came in and INSISTED we find CNN so he could see his mom, and I missed my FAVORITE SCENE EVER (I've subsequently downloaded and rewatched the episode, and OMG is it squeey. On a related note, someone find me a free mp3 of "I Hear The Bells" by Mike Doughty). So, that was miserable, and of course by the time I got back to my room my laptop decided to just not work. So with the last minute of battery, I posted this desperate plea, thinking it was the powercord's fault. So, I went to the lab and wrote half a page of Nabokov-related drivel and spent many hours on TWoP and AIM and that was that. 4 am bedtime.

Wednesday (kinda today), I turned in the psych paper and cut MB&B to work on the Nabokov. That didn't so much work out, and it took me the whole 5 hours to doctor 2 1/2 pages of nonsense with no coherent theme into 4 pages acceptable for a peer-editing draft. Oh, and I'd dropped my computer off at the store earlier for some guy to look it over, and after Russian I came back to find that it was the computer's fault, and it needed to be sent off to Apple for emergency treatment. I had to agree, but now I am having constant panic attacks. I reallly rely on that thing for my entire life.

Also today, the other worst thing ever happened: I'm homeless for next year. Our housing works on a ridiculous lottery system, in which people form "groups" of 1-6 people and depending on your class years and a random number generator are assigned a rank, from 1-530something. I was 471. The single rooms ran out around 469, after I'd spent two hours waiting in a room to be called up to get in line to actually register. Now I'm at the mercy of a backup system that I do not understand nor trust, and between that and my empty desk I am FREAKING OUT, mannn.

At least I was. Now I'm more freaking out over that favorite scene ever and heartbreaking ending. Don't tell the kittens, but I have a new OTP, and they're also canon, and they have actual chemistry, not just chemistry imagined by hoards of representationless lesbians (self included) and foisted on an unsuspecting fanbase. Or whatever. Though I think these shippers are equally violent and protective. If one of their own were murdered, they'd have the same petitions and freakouts and boycotts. I'd probably join, except the boycotts. Truth be told, I didn't even participate in the original dead-Tara one. I watched some of season seven, and didn't like it, and THEN stopped.

Theme from the Magnificent Seven

2006-04-17T13:24:00.000-04:00

--because since I saw the film last Thursday the main titles music has been set on my iPod alarm clock. It makes me want a horsie.

I'm on like the worst possible sleep schedule. I can never get to sleep till somewhere between 4 and 8 in the morning, and yes, I'm aware that I have to wake up at 8 three days a week (and now you are). As a result (in my opinion), I've been having odd little dizzy spells, whenever I move my head too much. They're actually sort of cool and addictive, like drugs, but mom says they're caused by fluctuations in my blood pressure, so, they're bad, like drugs.

I've been making it a habit, in my TV and movie viewings, to post-ironically point out Unresolved Sexual Tension between characters. "They should make out," I proclaim. I say post-ironically because saying it is ironic, but we're all actually thinking it, or we should be, if the writers and actors and whatnot been doing their jobs. Although, you know, I'm having a hard time thinking of UST that was supposed to be there that I haven't seen. Perhaps it's easier to play it than it is to play someone in a relationship, because everyone's had a crush, but not everyone's been happily married. (Though, in the "good at playing married" camp, I'm gonna shoutout to Donald Faison/Judy Rayes.) (By the way, anyone else [besides Frankie] ever notice that actors playing siblings often-to-sometimes have better chemistry than actors playing lovers?)

I've also been thinking a lot. I'm trying to pro-and-con Wesleyan. I kneejerk like it, I think. Because I'm here, I feel school pride, school spirit. I want to advertise to prospective freshmen, even ones I don't like. I want school memorabilia. I want Elisa to join me here in fall 2007.

Well, that's less about Wesleyan as an institution and more about my escalating homesickness. I miss my parents, my sister, my cat, my agéd grandparents, my room, my TV, my video games that I play about twice a year, my subway system, my Starbucks (despite my newfound lactose-intolerance, and p.s., is there irony in the fact that I got a disease with the word "intolerance" in it here at good ole' PCU?), my my my my my. But this, here, where I am, Butterfield building B room 227, feels like as much my room as does [home address deleted by sanity]. The very first day of orientation, I was whining to mom and dad that I didn't want to hear the President mumble (it's his trademark), I wanted to go home, but I didn't mean New York, I meant here. And I couldn't even find my way here on the map yet. (Now I can--just go as far away from you are as you possibly can, and you're home. Unless "where you are" is one of the other Butts, the science buildings, or the Chinese program house.)

One of my odder habits is going to this site and reading random serial killer/rapist/et cetera profiles until I'm deeply frightened and sleep with the light on. It's like a horror movie, but more psychological because it's profiles and, since it actually happened, like twelve times as scary. This habit is not what led me to this guy a bored and boring 20-something who killed his 10 year old neighbor girl with an intent to FUCKING EAT HER THERE IS A CANNIBAL ON THE LOOSE WELL NOT ANYMORE THEY ARRESTED HER. But the point is, he's creepy. That article is sort of annoying, but if you google-news it you'll find out more about him. My favorite part is that he was addicted to this game, which I played for approximately a year until new additions made it too complicated. (Yes, that's right, I am too lazy for a MMPORPG. One with stick figures.)

And that will lead me right into my other line of thought. See, I've decided, over the course of this year, that I wanna be a double major, Religion and Psychology. I chose religion because the intro course was awesome, and because the point of the major is to understand why religion is as pervasive and powerful as it is (gay married stem cell abortion). I chose psychology because... well, I've been seeing a shrink since I was 5, and I credit her with me being like a quarter normal (as opposed to the maybe sixteenth normal I would've been), and my mother always said I had good insight, and I have a really lot of fun saying things like "oh, he's just displaying childhood egocentricity and overgeneralization" in conversation a mere five hours after my class on cognitive development. The whole thing seems... not self-evident, really, but... natural. Figuring out what makes people tick is natural. (Figuring out whether or not bacterial DNA mutates is not, and is in fact so boring that I think it ends the laws of nature and makes that class FIVE TIMES as long as the psych class directly proceeding it in the very same room with the same clock.)

In conclusion... my heart needs a massage. Literally. My ventricles-and-blood heart, not my roses-and-FEEeelings heart. I am le tired.

C.C., Pick up that guitar and TAWLK! to me!

2006-04-05T04:18:00.000-04:00

RAWK! RULE! ROCK! ROLL! ETC!

C.C., btw, was on the one episode of The Surreal Life I saw before I came back here and was the most charismatic guy EVER on the history of "Celebreality"; and was on an episode of South of Nowhere, which is a terrible show but inspires some amazing fanfic (mostly jengirrrrrrrl--number of rs possibly exaggerated); and, of course, played guitar for Poison, relevantly, on the track "Talk Dirty to Me," to which I cannot stop listening.

I've been obsessed with this playlist I've made, of the 30 songs that make me RAWK OUT the most on from my 2009 song collection. (whoa, 2009 is the year I graduate COLLEGE). (I've also been obsessed with experimenting with capitalization.)

Anyway, this playlist has taught me a few things, like, a) the 80s, b) teenagers having sex (in song, not for real, because creepy), c) guitars--all three RUUUULE and I should re-take-up the guitar. I was gonna be a rock star when I was in the 9th grade. I wasn't any good, but I was going to be 2nd guitarist and backup singer, so I'd still get laid, but I wouldn't have to be talented. It was foolproof, except I was never really in a band. I was in a fake-band with Jaya and Rie and Frankie and Lucas Rainey, back in the day, which was coincidentally called Double Negative (and by "coincidentally" I mean Frankie cribbed it). It was totally fake, though, because I think at one point I was the drummer, and I have the whitest, terriblest rhythm on the planet, except for maybe someone from Norway.

Speaking of Norway, I saw a freaky-ass production of A Doll's House that included midget sex (Safe For Work) and puppetz galore and lip-synced opera. I saw it at Yale with other people my age, which means I was in a car with people my own age and "hung out" with them (as is the common parlance), which is like a giant step for mankind. Haven't seen any of them since, but still, important to know.

Got myself roped into another play. Should probably read said play (um, re-read?) before readthru tomorrow. It's gonna be more experimental than probably anything I've ever done, but honestly, all I want is a main-stage show. In fact, to be really frank, I wanna put on a giant Broadway colorful simple clean-lined musical. I saw The Pajama Game (coincidentally the show we were all in when we came up with the band Double Negative) with Frankie on Broadway and it was so technicolor and pure and heterosexual and simple and wholly anti-my complicated and indoor and gray college experience thus far. Not that Wesleyan is devoid of experiences that seem colorful, of course--there's this hill everyone sits on, Foss Hill, and when it's sunny in spring it's so freaking green, and like the whole school is there interacting and being stoned and goofy and everything I wish I could do. But I fear going to Foss Hill because it's far away from my dorm so I have no excuse and I haven't enough friends with whom to sit and goof off. I'm hoping young Dylan (known mostly in the blogosphere as Lysander)'s attendance next year will jump-start me, and he said he wants to live on one of the dorms on the hill. So, Dyls, if you by any chance read this, I'm counting on you?

No.

Oh, and it's not like I don't sometimes enjoy myself here. But the majority of my time is in this drab-ass fucking room, stuffing myself and watching Doogie Howser M.D. or something equally stupid. (Or something really smart and awesome, like Veronica Mars, but that doesn't help my point. I just like talking about it. And the theme song is on my Rawk! mix, which, is like, cyclical.)

I jotted down some blog-type notes during a particularly excrutiating session of my Doubles in Literature class--it was about a book called The Golem that I didn't read, and it was so dull that I didn't even bother to piece together some bullshit based on other people's comments and in-class paragraph scans, like I normally do. At the end of class, the professor asked me if I was okay, because usually I say something "brilliant" at the end of class that pulls it all together, but I just couldn't that day.

Right before that class, someone entered the room and sat across from her usual desk. "Crossing the boy/girl divide," she declared. I realized with a start that we'd been sitting boys on the left girls on the right the whole time. I used to always notice that shit, in high school. Who people sat with and gender lines and stuff. I either didn't notice because I was sitting right on the divide, or because the emphasis on avoiding that stuff at Wes has led me to sheild myself from it... or because I spend most of that class pawing through the books wishing I'd read/read more closely/understood it better/not sucked at life.

And here are some vaguely biblical thoughts: The story of Jacob wrestling with the Angel is gay even out of it's context in Angels in America; if Israel means "he who fought with God," then is Palestine God? And isn't Palestine Esau, anyway?; and despite the fact that my mom's called me Little Lamb for years, I've never really had a Jesus complex, I don't think. I don't really have a martyr thing. I sort of air my flaws for the world to see, but that's more of a "and then nobody can make fun of me because I did it first OH SNAP" thing. It's fundamentally selfish, and doesn't do anyone else any good.

My final note is "The quick brown fox jumps over a lazy dog" written with my left hand (I get really bored), so make of that what you will.

"I'm it. I'm all that's left. Here, father, here I am!"

2006-03-05T16:48:00.000-05:00

And here you are.

Man, my play went up so awesomely, and in the course, I've gained a) a sword that makes swooshy noises and lights up when I hit it, b) a toy car, c) a figurine of a medieval woman looking in the mirror, and d) an awesome bond with the awesomest cast/crew ever to awesome an awesome. I love the post show high. And, I managed to avoid the awkward show-crush thing. Hey, maybe that only happens as an actor. I fancy there's a mystery in it. (Dammit! I'm sorry, that and the title are lines from the play. I'm in that phase where that's all that I can say. That rhymes.)

So, for the past two weeks or whatever I've been keeping a "To Blog" list/folder. I will expand on this from it's fetal list form.

Paige Has A Giant Fucking Head - Degrassi
Well, she reaalllly does. Like, I know about closeups and framing shots to fit the screen, but seriously, her head ate Canada. Her head ate lesbos. Her head is bigger than my mother's, and that's saying something.

Barry Bostwick is Old - Scrubs
Well, he reaallly is. I have photographic evidence. And this is from three whole years ago, so I can't imagine how old he is now. Well, I probably can.

Anyway, this is relevant because we spent so long on this blog remembering him looking like this:

Some Thoughts on Transsexuals - The L Word
Oh, honestly, I don't care anymore. Whatever, Max the Transgender[ed person] formerly known as Moira, I get it, you wanna be a dude, and you need your "T" and your "top surgery" and your "Pissin' Passin' Packer" and your godawful FTM goatee, but I DON'T CARE. I mean, cancer storylines suck, so I welcome a distraction, but you, my not friend, are no distraction, because you bonded with Dana over medication, and I don't care if you tried to kill yourself out of bodydysphoria, because Dana's dying without her own fucking help. So...
Anyway, what I really wanna talk about is the fact that Carmen (Latin women. Caliente) and Shane (sigh) had a big fight over a dream that Carmen had. Here is the relevant dialogue.

Carmen: "I had this dream that we were inside of Wax, but it was, like, really trippy, and there were all these like, paintings that were floating around, and you were there and I was there and there was this lady... it was Cherie. It was Cherie Jaffe. You were giving a tattoo to Cherie Jaffe. Like the one that we have that's on the back of our necks. Why did you do that?"
Shane: "Do what?"
Carmen: "Give her a tattoo."
Shane: "I didn't."

And then later...

Carmen: "Okay. Not only did you give Cherie Jaffe a tattoo, but there was a scary-looking, like, bird that kept flying around, right, and at one point, it was screaming your name, it was like Shane, Shane, hello Shane, and you sprouted wings and you flew off with the bird. Okay? That is unacceptable. Nuh-uh. No."

Heeee! I mean, I had a dream last night that I was a high school teacher and one of my students was autistic but he was also artistic and then I referred him to my childhood shrink, who specializes in autism (I'm not autistic, but I had elective mutism, and somehow they go together, I dunno, I was 5 at the time), but I'm not mad at anyone. And the night before, I dreamed that I was making out with some anonymous chick on a hospital gurney, but that's no reason to be mad at Zach Braff. (Garden State, however, is.)
Ooh, I also had a dream that Alia Shawkat went to Wesleyan and I cast her in a play with Dylan.

and, finally

VERONICA FUCKING MARS
I could just say holy shit. I could say "is smarter than you." I could say "I watched all 35 episodes over 3 days of TECH WEEK, which is the busiest week of the EVER." In fact, I say all of those, and that creator Rob Thomas was my favorite YA author before he was a TV genius on par with our own Joss Whedon. Seriously, Rats Saw God changed my life, which is weird, because I'm not a stoner or an early 90s teenager or a dadaist or from Texas, and thus the book really isn't relevant to me at all, but it was kind of irreverant and awesome and I must've read it like a thousand times and I'm going to read it again when I get home for SPRING BREAK, WOOOOO [Flash]!

What a desolation. What a life's work.

Book Log:
Assassination Vacation
You'd thought I'd discontinued this. Well, I didn't, because AssVac (as I like to call it) was AWESOME. Seriously, I love books that condense history for me. I wish there'd been more about Czlogoz and Guiteau, but Vowell was more interested in their respective murderees, and I can respect that. It's just easier to find information on McKinley and Garfield, what with them being, you know, U.S. Presidents. And, you know, someone should make a movie out of The Many Assassinations Witnessed by Robert Todd Lincoln. It'd be a great movie. Like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, etc etc, which I really should read/see, because people keep talking about it.

Movie Log:
This I might discontinue, or at least only use for movies I actually have something to say about.
For now, let's just say that I enjoy Westerns far more than I thought I would, and can even stay awake for most of 'em, and Oscars, WOOOOO!

The Andy Griffith Theme

2006-02-13T01:01:00.000-05:00

--a) Arrested Development/Ron Howard tribute. b) Whistled compulsively on an episode of Scrubs. c) Brilliant and fun. Look it up on iTunes and listen to the 30-second clip!

Fill this out. I beg you. Right now, they only people I've asked are Frankie, my mother, and my li'l sister, and it looks pathetic.

I have no full-ass recap of the L Word for y'all, just a general hate-o-meter or something:

Bette: Hate less, because tried to sleep with a boy who slept with a boy who slept with a nun, in 1985, wearing a Flashdance outfit, do you GET IT?

Jenny: Hate less, because she sold out. Like, you'd think someone with her "artiste" vibe wouldn't stand for having her thinly-veiled novel turned into a vaguely-fictionalized memoir, but she acted like a real person and got excited by it.

Tina: Looked fat. And I can say that from a vantage point of having to had sit on my stomach for twenty minutes to get over my over-eating at dinner today.

Helena: Enjoys getting lesbo-kissed. Like, that smile. It's radiant. Maybe Ellen's Ex is just that good.

Alice: Magically got over her Dana-obsession, a) because she got vampire-laid (by NOSFERATU!) and b) because Dana had like her left pectoral removed.

Dana: had like her entire left pectoral removed, because of one of those lines on the earth. The Tropics... um... what was it?

Dana's Parents: idiots. Hey, 'member the first season where we found out her mom had lesbo-tendencies?

Shane: My mom reports my dad said, while he was sitting in front of the TV with the Sunday Times and definitely not watching, that he could see me with Shane in the future. I can't stop smiling at the prospect.

Carmen: Hee, she's all fiery and jealous and Latina.

On another TV note, AD ended. Um, on Fox. Or on TV, or in general. It was a great ending, and I totes cried. Unfortunately, I didn't get to see it till a day late, because some IDIOTS (wait, I forgot, they don't live next door when I'm online) in a band decided that 7-10 would be a perfect time for their Friday night band practice. Go get laid, idiots, like normal guys in bands. Don't hog my only access to a real TV.

On _another_ TV note, I can't stop singing the Scrubs theme. Or the a capella version here. Or any of the songs on this album (band mentioned last entry re: "Maniac."

On a non-TV note, my computer is so fucked up. My "R" key's top totally came apart, my "down" key disappeared like a month ago, and all the keys stick a little. Plus, both of my plugs are broken, so I only have an hour 19 left on this battery. Which, um, not good, because usually I'm online for like four more hours.

Dammit, I can't think of any non-TV notes.

Oh, on Saturday, I assembled a table. I've been saying "built," but really, I just drilled holes in the legs and screwed nuts (heh) into said holes, so it's assembly. And then I bonded with theaterfolks for a while. We talked about Superman, Batman, Aquaman, Director-of-the-play-I'm-stage-managing-Man, and bagels.

If I had a mantle, I'd mantle in the morning. I'd mantle in the evening...
What I meant to say was, Director-of-the-play-I'm-SMing lives in an on-campus unfurnished house, in which there's a bricked up fireplace with the mantle intact. He has framed posters for his previous four shows at Wes (he's a senior), and sometimes, during rehearsals, I zone out, and imagine what I'd put there. I think that picture of all of us dressed up like little whores for Rocky, this black-and-white photo of my block at home that Le gave me, and Harvey Keitel (he's not Mr. White anymore because I lost the lighter, two of the hands, one of the guns, and, most crucially, the sunglasses. Can't be a Reservoir Dog without sunglasses).

In conclusion, my toaster is very red and shiny.

The L Word, or I am Sorry For Not Blogging Recently. Or Change.

2006-02-05T23:40:00.000-05:00

Hey, remember last time I blogged, in November? (No, that other one, about the stupid lesbianism, that was Frankie. She was getting me back for some prank I'd pulled on her. Oh, right, I'd put my own addendum on her draft of the film snob awards, but, come on, I didn't publish them. That's rude.)

So, I can't do a big catch up post. I'm doing better on the socializing--Friday I went to a Rocky Horror and amused lots of people by being one of three people who knew callbacks; Saturday I went to an event called "Porn and Milkshakes," but my milkshake tasted funny and Deep Throat is almost so bad as to not _be_ funny. Except for this one scene, wherein this one guy--the plot is that this girl with a clit in her throat rather than on her vulva becomes a sex therapist/hooker--so,the scene started out like a normal patient, but then, slowly, he slid a beaker into her pussy (where his penis also was). He then filled it with a liquid. Then that "I'd like to teach the world to sing" song started up. The doctor began narrating, saying "Patient X. 35, obsessed with proving that everything does go better with Coke." And then, Linda Lovelace and the patient continue fucking, while drinking the pussy-coke with a long straw.

So, anyway, other than those vague attempts at socializing, I've been watching TV. I've watched the complete Scrubs twice since January 21st, and I've watched tons of Buffy and half of Weeds and all of Undeclared and some Degrassi and some South of Nowhere, and, of course, my flagship, the L Word. Unfortunately, the L Word sucks without me being able to give commentary to my mom, so here it is: a typed commentary, sort of like a recap (a real one will be available here soon), but mostly just the commentary part.

Hey, people, guess my star sign. I'll give you a hint--I'm born on July 8th, and Dana has it.

Ewww, cybersex. Bette had it coming, almost, but maybe not. I don't like Bette, because she prioritizes her "art" above all things, including providing MONEY for her INFANT. But Tina... well, if she wanted to fool around with guys, maybe that's something they could have talked about. offscreen. Because I'm sick of them.

I like Tina's new haircut. "I don't have a husband" is subtle and not a lie. but it's a lie in spirit. I can't be down with that. But, again, she's lying AT WORK. a place Bette could stand to be.

I can't tell if Cumming just said "bisexual speed dating night" or "five-sexual." There are, as Frankie's professor said, five sexes. Because humans are Dutch. And Cumming claims to be "omni," which, in saying all, implies he believes in more than two. And, you know, I kinda like the binary. Sorry. So, bisexual it is. And, also, Alice is saying the word bisexual over and over again. I wish she weren't fucked up so I could relate to her, because, seriously, cancer-having tennis stars, chefs, movie executives, "artistes,"... I can so much more relate to a columnist at a crappy magazine who aspires to no greater things.

Heee! I love this little straight man! You serenade the hell out of Foxy Brown! Why is he wearing eyeliner at bisexual speed dating if he's going for a menopausal straight black chick?

I've been sympathizing with Carmen's lack of sympathy for Moria/Max till now, but I can't agree on the messy room thing. On one square foot (approx) of my floor, I see a cow slipper, three bottlecaps, shavings from a plastic thing I cut up with an exacto-knife, a sock, and about five million breadcrumbs. Imagine that times whatever square footage I have. I'm a mess. (I'M A MONSSTTEERR!)

Speaking of monsters, I wonder if this lady's job is spelled Vampirologist or Vampyrologist. And if she talks about Buffy. The way she talks, it sound more like she's a Anne Rice/Dracula/"Classic" vampi(y)re fan. Or, from the continuing of this conversation, vampyre itself.

What the hell is this "throw down the keys" thing I see whenever I see a starving documentary filmmaker? And speaking of bad documentaries, Mark's documentary in the Rent movie was seriously the equivalent of my dad's super8 home videos of himself as a kid, but with a drag queen as a star rather than an 8 year old. Seriously, that's not filmmaking, that's proud parenting.

Oh, nice cover-up, Tina. "Some big secret internet sex life." Research purposes. So incredibly unsubtle. Now, here's a good time to say this, but on Scrubs episode 5.07, The Blanks sing an a capella "Maniac," and I keep thinking of it when I see Jen Beals.

Helena is pretty and British. What the hell is Ellen's Ex's documentary about, besides strange black ladies who are pregnant and have guns and go by "Mistress P?" And how is the death of "Sumatra" by gunshot a turn on for either of these people? Helena has an amazing "Goody! I am kissing a girl!" smile. It's very cute. I never disliked her as much as most people, because, recall, I hate Bette, so her last-season humiliation was funny, to me. Ah, here's the problem. I was wondering why we had to see so much of this sex scene, because usually they cut away after a few tasteful moments unless something's going to interrupt or be revealed. So, the problem: filmmaker lady has a boyfriend.

They keep saying "Lara" like Laura and it's freaking me out. "Stop trying to make me feel good about my cancer" is my new favorite phrase, and I will use it on someone soon, mark my words.

Dana's trying reallllly hard to make everyone not worry about this, but of course, all these women know from breast cancer. And, hee, Bette and Helena both know about Tina's lumpectomy scars.

Okay, what the hell is Max doing? (It's Max now, I think, because ze [yes, I said ze. sue me] is wearing a suit.) Oh, applying for a job. I don't care. Oh, man, that's a great exchange.
Suit: "Moria... That's a girl's name, isn't it?"
Moira: "Yeah, I'm a girl."
Suit: "Oh. I wasn't saying I didn't know if you were a girl. I was just saying... about the name."

Tina kind of reminds me of Gabrielle from Xena, but, you know, girlier and not in a fantasy series. Not that I was watching Xena every day of Christmas break. Because I am in no way desperate for lesbians. Okay, wow, that's a lie. I apologize for my dishonesty. So should Tina. Accepting gifts from male directors she's working with who clearly have a crush on her and who she told she didn't have a husband... shame, shame, shame.

Is Lara trying to convince Dana to tell Alice about the malignancy? because that's... probably not a good idea. Alice has a date with a vampyr, remember?

Holy shit, why is Shane's lost love back for her? Shane was fine with hot spicy latina Carmen and noooooo, every time I fucking like a couple. every fucking time. (Double spoilers for Degrassi, there, because that picture proves the breakup of a couple that doesn't even exist yet in the US.)

Tina: "I think work takes priority over meditation group."
Bette: "That's not right."
Tina: "WTF, mate?" Not really, but, seriously, clearly-pregnant Bette, it does.
Okay, look, Bette was NOT sole-wage earner for 7 and a half years. She was for just the half. Tina quit her job RIGHT before the pilot. Come ON.

OHMGa a gasfk ak;sfnenma kanaj
Sorry, Shane has glasses on. And now idiot woman is taking them off, because she wants to have sex, but Shane's gonna stop her, RIGHT? Oh, good, Carmen's here. to save the day. and teach Shane an important lesson about acting like a girlfriend. Ugh. Except it didn't take, because Shane is stuck in her hot, hot ways.

Wait, ObviouslyPregnantBette went to mediation? where the hell is the baby?

Jenny's sporadic appearance in this episode is making her so much less annoying.
When that guy said she wasn't fish or foul, she should have said "I'm a lobster," because of the terrible, terrible speech she made about lobsters that one time. And see, now Jenny's being nice, and helping Moira drag-up.

Whoa, the vampyr just bit Alice. And Max is packing, and Shane is uncomfortable, and this is too early for the group wrap-up scene. And Helena, I will repeat, is kinda hot. Heee! Alice is funny. It's a real vampire! HEeeeeeee! ooh, I wanna go watch Buffy steada this.

The Whitney? That's in my neighborhood at home. That is NOT in LA. Which has an L. And is the location of this show. Oh, man, awkward. The East is capital-a-art and the West is movies and money. I

Hee. I like yoga, but Alan Cumming in a "fuck yoga" gun show shirt makes me giggle.

Alice, are you allowed to have the post-sex dish on a CELL PHONE while still on HER BED? in the other woman's house? is this the new fun? Oh, it's not a post-sex dish. it's a "have Helena google vampires for me so I can suspect this hot girl who just gave me great head with greater authority." Well, the website said nothing about S&M... but I suppose that's implied. And VampWillow liked to say that "in [her]world, there were people in chains and [they] could ride them like ponies." Which is funny, because non-Vamp Willow was afraid of ponies, because one bit her arm at a birthday party. Oh, my, god, Shapiro, stop thinking about Buffy.
HEEEEEE! Uta Refson in the mirror looks like Nosferatu and that is the BEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN. The shot of that. I am uploading that for you.
Isn't it hot?

Ooh, and finally, we get to cut away from ALICE in orgasmic bliss to DANA looking sad. Oh, but she quickly enters into the orgasmic bliss part of the program. Oh, but it's crying orgasmic bliss, because her boobies are leaving.

Oh, God, I don't care about Tina's feeeeelings about men. Smack down stupid hippie Bette some more. don't give her this cybersex related ammunition.

Shane! Shane! Come back, Shane! Come back to Carmen and happy hot land! Damn. Well, this is kinda hot, too, but they don't have the same chemistry as Moening and Shahi. Wouldn't it be uncomforable to make out in a pool while wearing jeans? Oh, look, Shane has a dildo. Straight girls, straight girls, guess what? This is one more step towards you subsuming your naughty urges towards men. Or something. I'm tired. Good night, and good luck.

I am a stupid lesbian

2005-12-31T16:38:00.000-05:00

Like, seriously, sometimes it truly astonishes me what a stupid lesbian I am.

"Jesus is great, but can I eat him?"

2005-11-21T20:45:00.000-05:00

--Film Professor, who followed it up by saying "But, if that's the way you judge your religious icons... I'm goin' with Buddha."

zolaonaol: I do not understand. Are you a man or a woman?
crayolarabbit: I am a woman.
zolaonaol: Me too. I am a female robot.
crayolarabbit: that's totally playing into the gender binary, you transphobic holocaust denier.
zolaonaol: You don't hear that sentiment very often.
crayolarabbit: you do here.

All of which is to say, Frankie is a man (because she has a man's name... and a man's face*) in my school's newspaper. Read all about it (and about other stuff) here.

In other news, next semester, I will be taking:
Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays at 11-- Latin part 2
Mondays and Wednesdays at 2:40--Doubles in Literature (which is listed under RUSS and taught by the chair of the Russian department, so I presume an emphasis on Russian lit)
Tuesdays and Thursdays at 10:30--Biology and Chemistry in the Modern World - A survey of Drugs and Disease
Tuesdays and Thursdays at 1:10--Western Movies: Myth, Ideology, and Genre.

Very exciting schedule, except for possibly the chemistry and occasionally the Latin. I mean, Latin is fun, but I'm falling behind and it can be impossible to do well now that the amount of information we have to have totally memorized has like tripled.

In other other news: Remember the essay I all-nightered for? Stupid professor sent us an e-mail either railing at us for not using internal citations and proper bibliographic format or accusing someone of plagiarism. I did the first, but definitely not the second, because if I had I could've gone to sleep, so if it's the first, well, fuck you, Prof, because you never said we had to. And if it's the second, fuck you, student who thinks he/she/it/not ze can get away with that shit.

On a related note: My religion professor wrote on the essay I just got back that I should write "she" instead of "one." Like, rather than "he" or "ze." That's right, a nutty old white male professor is going to take back years of patriarchy by having me write "she" when I'm writing in generalizations (but generalizations based on the writings of men). Oh, Wesleyan.

And, finally, I totally saw Frankie and it was totally awesome and if I totally finish this paper I can totally chillax more with cool people over break. So, I shall endeavor to do so.

Movie Log:
It Happened One Night
Oh, I do love me some Classical Hollywood Cinema. Screwball comedies are wonderful and great, and even though Clark Gable is ugly he's charming, and Claudette Colbert has the same name as a guy from the TV, but they aren't related. I wish I had a TV. Have I mentioned that? I really do. Except I wouldn't have much to watch now that Arrested Development is cancelled. Bastards.

Naniwa Elegy
The first foreign film we've had that I geniuely enjoyed and did not fall asleep in at all. Even in M, I think, I fell asleep briefly, during one of the scenes with the vigilantes. But for some reason, this one kept my attention. I think it was the experimental camerawork and the melodrama and the hooker and the hurry and the noise.

L'Atalante
I realllly liked the clips he showed in class during the lecture on it, so it sucks that I slept through it. Oh well. I'm sure I'll find another time to watch it. From what I saw, old guy=creepy surrealism.

Stagecoach
Good thing I liked this, since I just registered for a class on Westerns. I feel like I'd seen it before, but that could be the way the conventions of the genre have carried over into the pop culture world, or there could've been a Bugs Bunny parody of it. I wouldn't be surprised.

Theater Log:
Sexual Perversity in Chicago
I ran sound and they were pervs. see here, as I worked on it for a good four days and am thus not objective.

Vienna: Lusthaus
Hee, they said Lust. A performance piece with dance and elaborate lights and curtains and water glasses, and I didn't quite "get it," but was kind of amused, I guess, by some of the dialogue parts, and they were decent dancers, but it felt like it dragged, and I don't think I can watch dance.

On The Razzle
I miss high school. Those kids are wonderful. My first time objectively watching (well, not objectively, because I have my favorites and my un-favorites and my prejudices and stuff, but objectively as in I wasn't deeply involved or at all involved in the process of putting it together) a Friends show and it was as good as people say they are, except for the part where the tech was totally professional, but I blame my absence completely. Yeah, I said it. Y'all miss me.

* yo, guys, remember when people were totally dissing Frankie over the Internet anonymously? are we far enough removed from that time that someone can tell me who that was? Who those people were? And doesn't it, in an odd way, reflect poorly on my obsession with the anonymous confession board that I got all angry over that but when people dis random Weskids I'm like "learn to deal with it, ya pussy"?

A day that will live in infamy... oh, wait, I'm writing about World War One.

2005-11-07T07:31:00.000-05:00

Thus marks the end of my first all nighter like ever. I mean, I might be able to catch an hour of sleep before Latin, but I have my paper written, bitches, and it's not bad at all. Like 500 times better than my last paper for this guy, and that merited a B without even copy-editing.

This was a really stupid all-nighter to take, too, because I've been sitting in this chair for 14 hours, and have spent approximately one and a half of them actually writing, and if I'd just placed that 90 minutes at 6 pm rather than 6 am I'd totally be able to stay awake in the random Japanese film I'm supposed to watch tomorrow. Blame the confession board, blame the Kitten Board, blame how bored I was with this topic, but I'm an idiot nonetheless.

Edited to add, an hour later: Yeah, that thing about sleep was a vicious lie, and also a viscous one, because I always misspell that word and my lies have a thick, sticky consistency, as does my bed because I'm sweaty and need to shower, and ewww.

Also, I neglected to mention that I wrote this entire paper while it was due, because it's due, technically, "anytime Monday," so, when the clock struck midnight, I was totally infringing on the moment-of-dueness.

"Ereway inhay the oneymay!"

2005-10-31T18:41:00.000-05:00

-the pig-latin verse of "We're In The Money"

Remember last Halloween, when I had a costume and told everyone what it was and sang the Rosie the Riveter song and totally got hit on by the school principal? Yeah, none of that this year. I was allegedly a documentary filmmaker (I wore the America Is Scary shirt and boots and jeans and my blazer and a cap and had my camera), except I didn't bother with the cap and the camera because the cap shaped my hair funny and the camera was heavy, so I was just me, but in jeans, which I never wear. Except for today. But it was part of my costume. I guess.

College has turned me totally internal. I have thoughts, and sometimes they string together cohesively into something that someone out there on the internet might find interesting, but I never even think to write them down (probably because as soon as I open my computer I feel the need to start procrastinating).

I had an entire rant about gender-neutral pronouns and shit, but I couldn't figure out whether or not I wanted to write about them seriously, or to just write "transphobic holocaust denier" over and over (just say it out loud, phonetically, pronouncing each syllable really long). I had a bit going about how much I miss TV (a lot), but nobody cares. I had a thing involving talking about songs, but see previous (just one note: Paradise by the Dashboard Light is possibly the anthem of the universe, and one day, if I ever have sex, one day after that, I will have sex while reciting the baseball announcer portion of that song, and it will be so attractive). I had a rant about procrastination and what a bad student I am, but I'm really not that bad a student, I'm just not as good as I should be with all this time I spent totally not socializing. I had a long squeeing session planned over how much I enjoy romantic-ass fanfic, but see "nobody cares."

It's not like I spent all my time online. I mean, I go out for class, and for usually one meal of the day, and to shop, and sometimes to the library if I actually want to work for a little while (though I wish the "tour" they'd given us at the beginning of the year had actually shown us any part of the library where people sit and do work, because I've staked out a space in the periodical room and magazines are nearly as distracting as websites). Also, I've joined the staff of the student-run theater, which means that my Monday afternoons, Wednesday Afternoons, Saturday evenings and possibly some other time of the weekend are filled with fun "moving stuff" and "meetings." And I'd actually quite missed the moving stuff around. I mean, all school-year long, I had rehearsal every afternoonish, wherein I got to set up mini-stages at the beginning, and then, this year at least, I got to move stuff around all May in the reading room for Double Negative, and my summer job, when they asked me in, involved heavy lifting, and I hadn't moved anything except textbooks since then, and so moving flats and chairs and shit is like a link to how loud I used to be. Because I'm very quiet now, and I can't even sing loudly if I try (and I have) because I live next to people and there are people everywhere, and that's a really weird thing about college, all the people everywhere, because home is rather sparse and there were always empty rooms at Friends, but I feel like there's always someone wandering about wherever I go, even at 5 a.m. when I'm finally getting around to going to bed, and I go to the bathroom, there's some random person in my hallway.

Book Log:
The Penultimate Peril
Wheeeee Lemony Snicket is so cool and he went to my school so there.

The Book of Jerry Falwell
Oh, man, this was for class, but it was just so great, I recommend you read it for fun, because it's a California liberal secular academic's anthropological study of Jerry Falwell and born-again Christian culture and maybe this only fascinates me but boy does it. Fascinate. me.

Movie Log:

Gold Diggers of '33
Just saw this, and I don't care what anybody says, musicals are the best things in the world, no matter how nonsensical, no matter how illogical, no matter how inane or random or silly or dated. Because, dude, they're wearing dresses made of gold coins and spinning in circles and making abstract shapes! They're playing glow-in-the-dark violins! They're SINGING!

42nd Street
See above, except without the violins, and I bet I'll get sick of this one soon enough because I'm writing a paper about it.

M
Peter Lorre is scary and creepy and a child molester and it's like a thriller but in German and the first one. The professor likes it so much that it's one of two movies that he actually shows in 35 milimeter film rather than DVD or LaserDisc, and now it's time for me to be unpopular and say that I really don't mind DVD or LaserDisc or other digital formats, because, yes, less visual information, but more convenient! Cheap entertainment for the masses! We'll get the point about the shadow and the contrast between light and dark without it being the sharpest contrast ever created.

Applause
Speaking of inane and retarded... I mean, it was actually okay, considering the limitations of early sound technology, but it was so long. It was way too long, and there were creepy creepy nuns and eager eager sailor-boys and strange women who were like bizarro-Bernadette-Peters-on-heroin-stripper-ladies. Well, just the one.

Wings
This is the absolute cheesiest movie ever. I adored it. World War I, airplanes, Clara Bow, some other woman, friendship, random homoeroticism featuring the line "I wanted to shoot down one more Heiny, just for you!", and so forth.

Nosferatu
Vampyres. Vampires. Max Schreck. Whatever it is, this was good. I had to write a paper on this one, too, so not that into seeing it again and enjoying it without being like "and this is a German Expressionist manner of de-humanizing the figure and making it part of the mise-en-scene."

La Passion de Jeanne D'Arc
... I think they burned her at a stake. This was one of those sleepy-making ones that I'll have to rent or something before the exam. Because, seriously, let's just close-up on her face for a while! And God, Jesus, and love, and the bible. Or whatever.

Crippling Existential Certainty

2005-10-07T18:42:00.000-04:00

This morning, I had the strangest experience. I'd just woken up, and as I was staggering over to the alarm clock, I looked down at the Latin homework I'd left on the desk and had a revelation. It was intense, and sudden, and had a quality of Noetic-ness that reminded me of the mystical experiences in the book we just read in Religion class. But all I'd realized was "I'm me." It was very profound at the time. I guess I was someone else in my dream.

As a result, after I went to class and fudged a quiz, I have not moved. Literally. I mean, I've moved my hands, because typing, and I've reached up to get the iPod-connection cord, but I have not left this chair. Class ended at noon. It's 6:15. I have to pee. I need dinner. I have laundry to do, and errands to run in town, and a shower to take, and a movie I wanna go see, and a gay-ass party (with a drag show) that I want to go to, but I can't move. Maybe I will after this post.

I can't tell if I'm feeling antisocial through nature or nurture right now. Do I actually just not feel like talking to people, or does the fact that I feel pressured and uncomfortable and increasingly worried about all that sociability stuff make me hide in here from fear? Those rhyme.

I dare you to get the "Shut Up (Voice Ringer) and use it. And even if you don't want to, just listen to it, and giggle.

Movie Log:
The Last Laugh
I liked it. It was a sad story about a doorman who's life slowly crashes to bits around him, and he's all sad, and then Whee! 15 minute happy epilogue! Caviar for the bums! And, um, it had good mise-en-scene. Apparently. According to my syllabus.

The Smiling Madame Beudet
Those wacky French ladies in the early 22s, with their feminism and their taking time off from obtaining women's suffrage to direct movies about women who contemplate suicide as an alternative to their fat husbands. And, um, photogenie. Not like a picture of Robin Williams, but the quality that makes an object on film different from the object itself, and that makes a 2-second shot of a gun become a character that's like the embodiment of Anger and Hatred and Suicide itself.
(true story that I was just reminded of: I learned the word suffrage in the most embarassing way. This guy at camp in like 6th grade came up to me and said "hey, do you wanna join me in a campaign to end women's suffrage?" and instead of saying "what's that?" or "Seth, we're 12. we can't campaign to end men's slight discomfort," I assumed it meant "suffering" and said "uh, sure." Then he ran to the counselor and said "see! she didn't know what it meant!" and it was very embarrassing. Almost as much as that one time when I was 8 and I quoted the Animaniacs and nobody else watched it.)

The Three Sided Mirror
More of the French and the photogenie, but don't ask me anything else, because I fell asleep during the first girl. (it's three girls, each of whom like this one boy who looks really gay, and stories about their affairs with the guy, and it's sort of not linear and overly artistic. I woke up again during the last girl--she was prettier than the first. She was the poor one, I think.)

Battleship Potemkin
Okay, I don't even know what I was supposed to have gleaned from this. I really have to rent it before the next test, and watch it with my eyes strapped open. There's something about the theater, and the 1:10-4:30 time [not the hour, the amount of time in the same chair], and the lack of nearby Starbuckses that just makes me fall asleep in that class, and it makes me sad, because I love the lectures and I like what I see of the movies.

Mother
Before we watched this, I drank half an iced mocha latte. It was gross, but I figured it'd help. It did, a little, but not really, because I stayed awake for the first half, in which a son is a Communist and a father is a big drunk who gets conned into working for capitalists, and the son's friend kills the father, and the mother is sad and scared, and they arrest the son for having guns. (One of the son's comrades was totally into him.) And then... zzz. I'll rent it. I hate that.

Un Chien Andalou
Ooh, this was fun. It was surreal and had Salvador Dali in it.

Ballet Mecanique
This was doubly surreal. Looping and split screens and a creepy emphasis on a girl showing her teeth. Also, a very jarring and awake-keeping score. Maybe I'll be better at this when there's dialogue.

Missing
A senior thesis film from last year. It was pretty and stuff, but far too similar in plot to Flightplan or The Forgotten or any "I just want my kids back" flick.

Objects Removed from the Human Trachea
Another one o' those theses. It was cool, and directed by a chick, which is always fun. It was about a guy who has an old man in his apartment delivering a neverending lecture on things he found in tracheas, and when the young guy tries to sleep, the old guy changes the topic to his dead wife's snore, and how he can't sleep without it, so the young guy tries to tape other people's snores, but none of them work, until he brings back the cute girl who works at the 24 hour laundromat, and they all go to sleep in the same bed. It was funny and endearing.

Kinetoscope
This was the big thesis, the one that won the highest honor last year. It was creepy and black and white, and was about an OCD projectionist watching a horror flick, injuring himself, and then imagining himself in various scenarios in the movie, all of which caused me to jump in my seat, and I was sitting down the row from the director, and I was half embarrassed and half pleased for him.

If I'm this disaffected on a Saturday, what's my Sunday gonna be like?

2005-09-24T19:58:00.000-04:00

I was all upset a few minutes ago, thinking "There is nobody in this state who I could just call up and say "hey, wanna hang out?"" But then I realized that there were about two people I'd call and say that to back in my home state.

A conversation I just had with my mom, kinda:

crayolarabbit: I hate this. I wanna talk to mommy. are you at a soccer game?
Could not send because [mom] is not available.
crayolarabbit: is Elisa playing good sports?
Could not send because [mom] is not available.
crayolarabbit: I'm tired. If I went to sleep right now, I could win something.
Could not send because [mom] is not available.
crayolarabbit: like, um...
Could not send because [mom] is not available.
crayolarabbit: I could win a pony.
Could not send because [mom] is not available.
crayolarabbit: I want a pony, ma.
Could not send because [mom] is not available.
crayolarabbit: It could carry me to the other side of campus, and I could see a movie, and then it could carry me back, and people would be like "woah, a pony."
Could not send because [mom] is not available.
crayolarabbit: and I would befriend them on the grounds that they were all "woah, a pony."
Could not send because [mom] is not available.
crayolarabbit: and when they said "woah," the pony would stop.
Could not send because [mom] is not available.
crayolarabbit: it's kinda a dumb pony, obviously, because it should only listen to me.
Could not send because [mom] is not available.
crayolarabbit: I made a really good outline for my film test.
Could not send because [mom] is not available.
crayolarabbit: but my Latin teacher hasn't posted the homework and that makes me nervous.
Could not send because [mom] is not available.

Oh, yeah, I have a life.

I also have a new box of Cheerios. I woke up at 2, went to the library to make the aforementioned outline at 3:30, went grocery shopping at 5, and IM'd my mom who wasn't there at 7:30. I suppose I'll watch some movie I've downloaded. If SNL were new, I could go do that. I bet you a million bucks that there's a party in my very dorm tonight, and these are my plans nonetheless. I really need to get involved with something.

I wish I had the Sunday Times. Or The Sims.

"Where was I?" "Nuclear apocalypse." "Oh, yeah!"

2005-09-23T14:15:00.000-04:00

--My Religion professors. I like this tag-teaching thing; I get exposed to both teacher's styles, and they can have banter. And I loves me some banter.

I have received an instant message saying "you officially need to blog again." And thus, I persevere. (I... do... persever.)

There's a good topic. I miss the Friends Seminary play. (And, apparently, it misses me, just a little bit, which validated my existence way too much.) I'm currently staring at an "applcation" to join the staff of the student-run theater here, but it's gonna be different. It's totally student-run, so no flighty British ladies and wacky set-guys-who-I-need-to-call back and hot stoned ladies making costumes (actually, that part might stay the same. "We're not a hippie school!" my butt.) Also, I won't be the only person in the school willing to do what I did.

That's another weird thing--I'm not the only lesbian. There are dozens of us here, dozens! Bunches! Reams! And the naughty connotations of that last one scare me. The existence of other lesbians brings it home to me that there is a potential in my life that I will be a sexual-type person eventually, and that's sorta scary, considering I still giggle when people say "do it." Or just "it," or "do."

My classes are still pretty cool. One of my professors (I'll leave it to you to guess which, from the descriptions below) is sort of condescending, in that he sort of ignores the students' points in discussion unless their points are identical to those he might make if he were to talk, but makes a big deal of wanting to have a discussion-oriented class. Another professor is loud and talks too fast to write down what he's saying, and his thought processes don't make the most sense anyway. The others are pretty cool.

I sort of miss the collaborative nature of high school classes. Everyone was taking essentially the same things, with some variation, so you could just approach any random kid in the grade and be like "did you do the [subject] homework?" or "was there [subject] homework?" or "dude, David Smith," and you'd have at least one minute of conversation. Also because of that, you could just sit in some student-populated area and ask for or provide help/advice/sympathy on most assignments. Most obviously, there was the student center, but hell, I could go into a 9th-grade hangout and be all "I remember that shit about the Mandate of Ti'en. Weird, eh?" and they'd be like "whoa." Because I have completely lionized my sense of my awesomeness in high school, and thus, for the rest of my life, will insist that I was the big man on campus, except not a man. And not so much a campus.

My dad stopped by for a half-hour last night on his way home from Boston. He brought me cake and cleaned my room, which was awesome, because every time he enters my room at home, he immediately, instinctively, gets down on the floor and starts collecting crumbs, and as soon as he's in here... same thing. It reminded me how comfortable home was, with TV and a fuller-stocked fridge and a bathroom that didn't require walking past perfect-strangers to go to and my cat and my parents and even my sister. Mostly the cat and the TV.

I've been reading books far less than I did in high school, too, because in HS, I couldn't nap or go online between classes, I could just read. I mean, I could go online, but I prefer to read Dawson's Creek recaps without the computer lab guy looking over my shoulder. (I started reading them for a comedy bit I was planning, based on my former homophobia, but then I skipped that audition because I had homework due the next day. I can think up an excuse to skip anything. Right now, I'm going to skip some gay thing in order to do laundry. Then I might skip dinner to nap. Then I'll skip going out to party to order in dinner. It's fun!)

Movie Log:
Serenity
Um, I know I promised an extra-special advanced preview log, but I forgot to do it in the previous post, and the movie's coming out, and suffice to say it's worth seeing, and it made me read the recaps of the entire series of Firefly. And then I downloaded the one with the girl-on-girl kiss and one other one from the awesome ResNet. So, um, go see. Support... Joss. It's weird to say that, because I frequent websites which regularly talk about causing his violent death.

On the Waterfront
I coulda been somebody!
The print was terrible, and the projectionist just SUCKed, but I still enjoyed it, as a way to put on context on Brando impressions. The pigeons were a little heavy-handed.

PCU
Awesome, awesome movie. I love me The Piven, and I love me the Making Fun of the Politically Correct, and I love me the Totally Based on Wesleyan. It really should be a classic college movie. People outside of Wes should totally watch it sometime.

The Cheat
No, not this one (this is a video with audio. do not click at work or while people near you are sleeping). A movie about a woman who almost cheats on her husband with (gasp) a Burmese (who, incidentally, is a Japanese actor and was Japanese originally, but the Japanese-Americans protested and they just changed the intertitles). Decent movie, for one of the first.

Stella Maris
Oh, that Mary Pickford! She's both the wacky, cockney, bad-circumstances, humorous, heart-of-gold poor girl named Unity and the ethereal, beautiful, innocent girl named Stella. Both the American (except for the cockney) and the Sweetheart.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
Um, I didn't so much see this as watch 5 minutes, doze off, jerk awake 5 minutes later, watch 5 minutes, and so on in a vicious cycle of "shit, I have a test on this film next week." It was a great movie to doze off too, though, because it had, like zombies that were actually just creepy-looking somnambulists (sleepwalkers), and it was all German Expressionist, so it was a little trippy to look at.

Book Log:
Salvation and Suicide, David Chidister
For Religion class. Very interesting study of The People's Temple and Jonestown. (That wikipedia article is wrong; they're not a cult. They were a legitimate religious group that happened to view the world in such a way that they committed mass suicide for the cause. It's like suicide bombers, without such a tangible reason to committ the suicide. Mostly paranoia. Jim Jones was kinda a nutcase. But he was a religious nutcase, not a cultist one.)

The Culture of Time and Space, 1880-1918, Stephen Kern
For Text and Context class. I didn't really get a chance to read this properly, with attention to detail and a critical eye, because each reading assignment was 150 pages and I'd waited till the last minute with it. But it stil had some interesting arguments and points, and I'll have to go back more in-depth when I write my paper.

(p.s. I know I never did it in the past, but school books count this year, because, again, not so much with the print reading sides them and the Times. Which I can't log, because it's a daily thing and I don't log daily. I can't find the Sunday Times most Sundays, but I can get the magazine a few days later in the magazine section of the library. I love that section. I study in there, even when I don't want a magazine. It's like the Reading Room, but with scholarly journals and comfier chairs.)

"I'm all for spurty knowledge."

2005-09-08T18:37:00.000-04:00

Ah, college classes. To quote Willow from Buffy:

The energy, the collective intelligence, it's like this force, this penetrating force, and I can just feel my mind opening up--you know?--and letting this place thrust into and spurt knowledge into... That sentence ended up in a different place than it started out in.

Tell me more! I hear you all cry. Well, okay.

My very first college class was entitled "Text and Context: Readings in Modern Europe." I'd chosen it largely because the reading list featured a James Bond short, Maus, and Sigmund Freud, and also because its a history course crosslisted in this major I'm considering, vaguely. When I met with my advisor (a very cool, very smart maybe-50-something lady who professes Russian) about what courses I was considering, she described this professor as "very young and very enthusiastic." He's not that young, I don't think--my threshhold for young teachers is my 9th grade physics/geometry (yeah, he taught me both. and physics and astronomy both senior year, too) teacher, who was 21 when he started--but he does have three earrings in each ear and a shaved head. He's definitely enthusiastic--he's conducting a large portion of the course online--we'll have study sessions and peer-editing and we're gonna submit every single assignment via the special internet service and yay, new technology! The reading for this class was impossible, but it was Descartes, and I expect it will become more possible when we get to the Fleming. Anyway, this is definitely my idea of a college class--19 freshmen and a hip young Prof in a circle (more of a square, I guess) talking about ancient philosophers. And it wasn't bad.

My next college class was Introduction to the Study of Religion. My first ever class with more than 40 kids in it (I believe there are 90). Its team taught by two professors--a crazy, tiny, bearded man with a lisp who is a total expert and muttered, while the other guy was talking "I'm goin' fuckin' bananas over here!" and threw down his thermos; and a tall, level-headed younger man with a very low voice who seems pretty smart. I think I'll like this class, since the books include The Autobiography of Malcolm X and an anthropological study of evangelical Christians.

The next day, I woke up bright and early to walk down the street for Introduction to Latin. I got to the class room and a man in a jaunty cap asked in a British accent "are you looking for Latin? Yes? Hi, I'm the professor. We're moving to another building. I'll walk you there." He seemed very nice and whatever on the walk, but once we got to class did the real appeal shine through. Its a class of about 20 kids, but he still had a TA. Why would he need that? we all wondered. Well, we found out when, in the middle of his first sentence, he went off on a tangent and asked the girl "where was I again?" Oh, and when he took off the cap he had a full head of Einstein-hair. It's gonna be good. Also, he says that studying Latin, in a way, is like studying the concept of a language itself, and in a school sans linguistics department, I find this really exciting (my advisor says she's been trying to get them to hire just one linguist for years).

And then, the big one. Film through 1945. Big ole lecture in a theater the size of the Chelsea West, which, for those of you unschool in New York City cinemahouses, means really big. The professor was very funny, and we watched lots of 20 second movies from the 1890s (which I won't log, because that would be annoying). We also watched His Girl Friday, which the professor views as the ultimate example of film as a storytelling medium. I tend to agree, because its really funny.

So, those are my first semester classes. All my professors are male. I have about 50 small paperback books sititng right next to my door becuase they're heavy and the bookstore is farther away than you might think. The bookstore actually holds within it a horrific tale of misunderstanding and dumb bureaucracy, but its not interesting at all. I know I was bored, sitting there for an hour while people said "I thought you called her." "No, this here says she wanted it shipped." "Yes, she did. And you were supposed to call and say we couldn't." "Okay. We don't have this book anymore. We'll credit you, okay? And you can come back." Joy of joys.

The More Times You Type The Word "Wesleyan," The Less Meaning it Seems to Have

2005-09-04T10:15:00.000-04:00

Having been here approximately one week, the smart collegian can sense the question on my readers' minds: how's school?

First response: hilly. Everywhere I go seems to be uphill both ways, for at least part of the way. This is probably because my dorm is as far away as you can get from the main campus without being in the middle of downtown Middletown. I've been using this similie in my head, though I have no idea as to its accuracy: imagine Wesleyan as Union Square. The dining hall and the other freshman dorms are over by Virgin Records, and I'm in that movie theater on 19th street. And there are lots of steep hills in between.

Second response: scary. I mean, everyone's been terribly nice, and registration was so easy I was worried I'd done it wrong. I spent an evening hanging out with kids on my hall (not the comedy troupe) and that was really cool, but the next day I found myself unconciously avoiding those same kids. In fact, the mere suggestion of going outside and dealing with all those people... 3000 people... it makes my head spin and my heart beat a little bit too fast.

Third response: anticipate-y. Classes start on tuesday and I can't wait--that day, I have Readings in Modern Europe and Religion 101, then the next day I have Latin 101 and Film up through 1945. Even before that, Joss Whedon '87 (yeah, he graduated when I was born), creator of my beloved-behated-berelationshipped Buffy, is coming to show us his new movie (I'll give an advance mini-review in the Log) and do a Q & A. I've been reading Buffy recaps to prepare, and also because for a large part of Season 4 and occasionally in Seasons 5 and 6, a couple characters go to college. It's been especially unhelpful, however, to read their episodes about the beginning of college, because three of 'em went as a group, and therefore they had friends, and the character I most identify with had a boyfriend at the beginning, so no help there. Though later she did get an attractive girlfriend by joining a club, which is he other thing I'm looking forward to. Club sign-ups, that is. Though an attractive girlfriend wouldn't be half bad, I suppose.

Fourth response: I was just delivered a pimped out refrigerator and microwave, and I'm giving them time to set up. I just wanted you all to know so that you too can have that terrible song from Shock Treatment stuck in y'alls heads.

Final thought: I'm already somewhat sick of putting "Wes" in front of everything. It spans from the official, like WesFest, to the weird, like WesBastards, a facebook group for illegitimate children, but my favorite has to be the Wesleyan Book Exchange, with the website www.WesExchange.com. Or, rather, WeSexChange.com. And we really do.

Keep Yo' Bread Up

2005-08-29T01:32:00.000-04:00

I don't know what that actually means, but I've been interpreting it as a general positive affirmation, like keep your chin up, but with bread, which appeals to my carbohydrate loving nature.

I've been a terrible blogger all summer. Also for the months before that. I've lost that analytical urge. Also that urge to merge... um, to write. I've been caught up in being content, or, for the last few weeks, being anxious for no apparent reason. General, warm-up anxiety. College is going to be fine. I'll find out in a few hours if I'm right.

So, any observations to make before this becomes a college blog?

I adored the Six Feet Under finale.

I saw my relatives today. Everyone either wishes me luck or tells me not to do anything they wouldn't do. Those are not helpful phrases.

My seven year old cousin and my sister were playing ping pong. Suddenly, my cousin turned to me and told me to "be the person who, um, gets the balls." I'm such a spider-eating-man-bitch. Puck told me he'd miss me because nobody else will carry him.

Scratch that last part, because, um, not a man. Just plain spider-eating-bitch. Without the spider-eating.

I really think everyone in the world should download the theme song from The Greatest American Hero. I've never seen the show, but the song is so uplifting. I plan to put it on repeat as we approach Middletown.

Book Log:
Until I Find You by John Irving
I adore John Irving, but this was sorta weak. I enjoyed it, but it seemed... thrown together. Even though I know for a fact that it was maybe a 50th draft and he'd spent 7 years on it. It just made it even more disapointing. There was an awesome tattoo in it, but it isn't real.

The Inner Circle by T.C. Boyle
It was weird reading this after the Irving, because Irving's books are so very literary--with the symbolism and the foreshadowing and the elaborate, generation-spanning plots. This was just a story. About Dr. Kinsey, and sex. Totally straightforward. It was good, though.

Movie Log:
The 40 Year Old Virgin
Funny. I feel like some subplots were hastily cut out, but it seems to have worked for them.

Broken Flowers
I just don't get the appeal of bemused, nearly-silent, still Bill Murray. Not in Lost in Translation, not in The Life Aquatic, and not in this.

Sin City
2/3s of it, really. It was fascinating in the sort of way that meant I want to study it, rather than watch it. I want to sit with the comic books and compare panel by panel and write a paper on whether or not the actors helped tell the story or something.

Jaws
SHARRRRRRRRRRRRRK!

Red Eye
CILLIAN MURRRRRRRRPHY!
(the plot was ludicrous. the movie was immemorable. But they were pretty!)

Theater Log:
Two Gentlemen of Verona
It was a musical version written in 1971. It starred Rosario Dawson.
The Rent movie is going to SUUUCK! She has no upper register to speak of, and she acts very poorly.
The songs sucked, too. And the sets. And the jokes. It was a fun last-dad-bonding-snarking thing.

"I don't want to take the edge off."

2005-08-08T20:22:00.000-04:00

-Brenda on Six Feet Under.

So...

My heart has been beating overly fast for the past few days. Not for the entirety of the time. For an hour or so yesterday and for about an hour so far today. Still goin', though.

The only thing that calmed me yesterday was watching the saddest episode of television ever (Six Feet Under), though, and I'm not watching that again, because it was really sad.

I haven't been to my "job" in two weeks. I don't really want to go back. I probably will out of sheer boredom one day.

I got a haircut. It looks all right--mom says it reminds her of when I was a year and a half.

On Frankie's last night in New York, we watched a really funny TV show called "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" on channel 58 at 10:30. I urge you all to watch it, in the spirit of things. The first episode was about racism and homophobia, but it was funny. Its very hard to make your racism funny.

I can't tell if my anxiety is about going to college or leaving high school.

Probably the former. I was looking at my sister's schedule and dreaded every minute of it, sympathetically.

Everyone orders me to have fun at college. I just want to say goodbye and leave the godforsaken family event, and every damn relative gets all militant and cries "have fun at college!" Am I supposed to say anything other than "I'll try?"

My parents went to Europe and came back in the time since I last blogged. They enjoyed it.

I certainly enjoyed it. There are many good things to be said for being left alone with a laptop, a DVR, and a cat for a week and a half.

If my heart beats one more time I might vomit. That's clearly untrue, because it's beat numerous times during the typing of this, but I think you understand what I mean. Yes, you.

And now, to make this post less depressing, a joke:

... I can't find any that aren't about blonde women. They sure are dumb, and like to put out!

Movie Log:
The Aristocrats
This was a really, really good movie. I urge everyone to see it, except if you're young and impressionable, because dirty things are described in detail.

Sex and The Single Girl
I saw maybe half of this on TV, but I got the point, so I figured I could log it. Wacky hijinx, mistaken identities, etc. It romantic comedy from the 60s, you know?

Go
As a reader of the personal website of someone who makes movies, there comes a time where you need to see the movie discussed (e-mail me or Frankie about Double Negative). Naturally, after a few months of this guy's site, you have to see Go. It just stops making sense not to.
It kind of sucked, but I can easily blame that on pre-Tom Katie Holmes (who, by the way, says "Gay guys are so hot." Proof positive!) and an aversion to drug comedy in general.

Happy Endings
Now this just sucked. There were "witty" titles that said things like "Charley and Gil have been dating for five years. They will never have a three-way," which is supposed to be both funny and profound. It was neither. Some good acting, mind, but in general, ew.

Mulan II
Before you start, you should know that Lucy Liu, Sandra Oh, That-Guy-From-Sixteen-Candles, Michelle Kwan-the-ice-skater, and B.D. Wong are all in this movie. It's like a magnet for all the Asian talent in Hollywood.
And still it sucked. Sad.

If there's nothin' missin' in my life...

2005-07-26T13:07:00.000-04:00

Not yet, anyway.

But everything is gonna be missing in my life soon, because my life is going to be totally started over. I'm not ready for that. I was very content with senior year. Sure, there were spats and hard bits and physics classes, but mostly, it was a very good thing. I would go so far as to call May projects the happiest time of my life.

Now definitely isn't, no matter how much fun shit I'm doing. Everything is overshadowed with the spectre of "the last time" (or "the last time for a while"). Every conversation turns to college fears--mostly the fear of the P.C. police, which, for me, is a metaphor for my fear of forming new social groups with their own in-jokes and quirks and mannerisms et al. Terri Schiavo jokes aren't just un-P.C., they're something we discovered on a Double Negative shooting day. When we're all around "real lesbians" (my words, unintentionally), we're not going to be able to run around saying "lesbians are really bad" and pointing out how totally lesbian that humorless statement is and... nobody's gonna call me Tronic at college.

The only thing I find comforting is pop music--fluffy, light, happy, non-sensical. Of course there's the 80s--"Hey Mickey" and Frankie Goes to Hollywood and "8675309." Pop punk words pretty great, but I have only one Blink 182 song and that other song about 1985, so I settle for the Spice Girls and MMMbop and, of course, "Lucky."

College better be fuckin' awesome, to put me through this shit.

Book Log:
Strangers in Paradise
This is so not fluff. It's lesbian angst in comic book form, and I don't like angst (nor do I the characters). Won't be gettin' the second volume, then.

The Girl with the Golden Bouffant
I can't get enough parody. Pretty good book--short read, cute read, nice and elaborate, could've been better, whatever.

Movie Log:
D.E.B.S.
This was cute. I threatened to kill myself out of embarassment numerous times during the viewing, but on reflection, it's just what I needed.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
I forgot to log this when I saw it on opening day, so you see what an impression it made on me. It was fine.

Wedding Crashers
This was very, very funny, and Rachel McAdams is very, very cute as a brunette, and Vince Vaughn is very, very creepy.

Susan's Ass

2005-07-20T02:45:00.000-04:00

So, today, I was at work for a whole two hours!

I was actually downtown for much longer. They never said when they wanted me, so I meandered in around 11:47 (which actually seems like a specific deadliney time to me--it was when 4th period ended at Friends). [Bergman] looked at me, then looked around the room. "Ey, Susan, you cleanin' today?" A tall black woman replied "not till 2:30, eheheheheh." (She has a verbal tic wherein she gives a high pitched little creepy giggle after every sentence. she also has an unplaceable accent.) [Bergman] turned back to me and said "all right, 2:30," and continued to drink his Budweiser (have I mentioned how he and Pocahontas drink all fuckin' day? Poca prefers Coors, though).

So I spent two hours lazily reading the New Yorker at that St. Marks starbucks with the outdoor seating, and listening to music, and thinking "what would happen if I just ditched Susan and stayed here all day?"

At 2:27, I arrived at the theater. First person I saw was [Bergman], who had always inisted that he left by 1. "Oh, 'ey, Laura, Susan and the girls are downstairs."

'The girls? We have girls? Are they pretty?' I thought as I meandered downstairs. Two African-American girls, maybe a year younger or older than me greeted me "you Lauren?"

"Um, Laura, yeah."

"What? Laura? You the intern? I thought she was named Lauren."

"I'm the intern, and my name is Laura."

"A'ight. Anyway, Susan's in there. You need an apron?" Apparently, working with dirty props and costumes and the things that grow on them is no reason to wear junky clothes to work. Gotta look your best. So I declined the apron, wandered into the room indicated by I-didn't-catch-her-name, and came face to face with Susan's ass.

It's a nice ass. Very round, nice size. But it's a startling ass, especially when you don't expect it at eye-level. I-didn't-catch-her-name didn't tell me that Susan was climbing ladders.

The rest of the afternoon was fairly uneventful. The theater was just trying to get rid of some of their more broken and unnecessary props--soil-sifters, baskets with the bottoms broken out, cloth corpses bleeding cotton all over the place. I tried my darndest not to be glib (they uncerimoniously dumped a thermometer, asking what play could possibly use a weather device, and I had to bite my tongue for my eagerness to blabber about Hay Fever. The main problem was the heat. It's a basement with no AC or fans, surrounded by moldly shit. I'm prone to sweating. I was a gross, gross person by the time I left.

But I came home to find a beautiful new laptop waiting for me, which I'm typing on, in my living room, right now, while watching an episode of Buffy I taped, and after a shower, I was set.

Book Log:
Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince
I hate books with cliffhangers and years-long delays. They make me mad and sad. Anything else I said would get this post slapped with a spoiler alert.

The funny thing is... Ellen Degeneres
I like Ellen and am not ashamed of how 'tronic that seems. She's humorous and seems like a nice gal. And she's a natural blue.
I'm glad I got this book for 2 bucks off a used-books-online thing if only for this one skit she has--she did it in one stand up routine and it made me laugh for approximately three hours then, and when I saw it here... oh, man.

Tsu Dayn Geboyrn-Tog

2005-07-14T00:22:00.000-04:00

--the internet tells me that means "Congratulations on your birthday" in Yiddish.

So, you've all been on tenderhooks since July 8th, waiting for the first post of an 18-year-old Shapiro, right?

Well, let's get there firsst. 17-year-old Shapiro got her learner's permit day after she blogged last. Day after that, she saw people her own age. Day after that, she turned into 18-year old Shapiro.

And now I can talk in the first person again, and I don't feel more grown up, but I'm acting it. Permit came in the mail today--ugliest. picture. ever. Yesterday, I opened a student checking account--my debit card comes in the mail soon. I have a bunch of books to read that my parents got me, plus my camera that you knew about and a 12"-PowerBook on the way. I got to third base with the gynocologist. I got a new cellphone that takes pictures.

What I don't got is a satisfying job. Nobody called me for about eleven days, so today I decided to stop by and remind them of my continuing existence.

I arrived, and [Bergman] was, per usual, drinking Budweiser and chatting with one of the renters.

"Oh, hey Laura. Jim 'ere needs a hand moving some wood and some foam-core. Then sweep the audience, and then you can go. We'll shoot for Monday... or Tuesday, next week, all right? We're gonna build some flats."

After that grueling 15 minutes, I wandered out of the theater and called a couple of friends, who were either on buses from Boston or just weren't home. I exercized, came home, and discoverd that we'd been sued.

By my Aunt.

How far into my Crazy Extended Family have I got? I mentioned Rozie when she died. Well, she had three sisters (two, really): my grandma, my aunt Tillie, and their stepsister, Edie, the sue-r. Now, Rozie left her vast fortune of a couple thousand dollars and some old magazines to be split equally amongst the three women, which did not sit well with her husband, with whom she did not live. He threatened to sue. My mom, her sister (my aunt) Sandy, and their husbands (dad and Uncle Steve) are all lawyers, so they're in the process of executing the will.

And, you see, most people don't need their grand-nieces to execute their will. Most people have kids, or husbands they speak to, or _something_. But not my three aunts. Tillie had a husband, but he died young. Rozie had a husband, but they didn't get along and he lived in Jersey. Edie never had a husband, because she was insane. So Mom and Sandy are burdened with three crazy old biddies they don't need.

Edie always had a complex about being the step-sister. She was always trying to prove that she was part of the family. Somehow, she got it into her head that mom was avoiding her and that she was being cheated out of significant sums of money because she was a fake sister. So she went out and hired a lawyer, some old accented man who took her paranoid delusions seriously and was concerned when mom told him "Gai gezunt" for working with crazy Edie. "Vat has she been treated for?" he asked. "That is no longer my business," Mom said, acuratly and coldly.

God I'm mad. I even called Edie to try and tell her what a bitchy move that was--way to undermine any efforts she's made to be accepted into the folds of trust of this family--and she fucking hung up on me.

On a lighter note, I plan to name my daughter either Stacy (so I can be her mom) or Stella, so I can shout STEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA in the playground.

Theater Log:
The Musical of Musicals: The Musical!
Oh, I felt so very CLEVER watching this. I got a bunch of jokes! About Sondheim, no less! Also about less important people, but Sondheim! I'm so cultured.
Seriously, it was fun. Especially if you _get it_.

Movie Log:
My Summer of Love
British people. Terri Schiavo camerawork. Depressingly small town.

All Over Me
A reasonable fascimilie of what would happen if I were in love with my best friend who turned to cocaine. And the wonderful Leisha Hailey of the L Word was the tertiary female lead, and had pink hair. The main character was ugly, and the secondary female lead just dumped Wes Anderson.

Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy
Things I liked about this movie:1
1) The female and male leads called each other Mr., Ms., sir, madam, and "gentleman lover."
2) Stupid people = funny.
3) People falling down = funny.
4) The very clever way of making the one PG-13 "fuck" a major plot point.
5) Paul Rudd.

Things I didn't:
1) The plot.
2) ... I have such Will Ferrell issues. I think it's leftover from the recurring skit he did with Rachel Dratch where they say the word "lover" funny.

These are a few of the weird-i-est things

2005-07-05T00:48:00.000-04:00

I'm really bad at titling things. Also, these things aren't _that_ weird. What about that head spinning thing in The Exorcist? That's pretty weird, too. Much weirder than this shit.

It is the weirdest thing in the entire world to know that I am older than the characters in most teen movies. I was watching The Breakfast Club the other day, and as they whinged on about their pathetic home lives, I wondered aloud to my sister "They're all two years younger than me." I looked over again, and realized "They're your age." That was freaky.

It's the second weirdest thing in the entire world to freak out on a ladder. I've been on many a ladder in my day (and by many a, I mean a few), and I'd been on many a ladder _today_, even, but suddenly, one ladder just freaked me out, and I had to run away from Pocahontas and go work with his girlfriend and the other women-folk on the artsy-fartsy painting type business. It was embarassing. I try, but I'm not very butch.

It's the third weirdest thing in the entire world to hide out in your friend's bedroom while you're supposed to be working and listen to Lil Kim. You see, on one Mr. Goodfellow's (I don't think you understand how witty I am) insistence, I am working on transforming myself into a white, modest, lesbo-tronic version of the Queen Bee. For research, I downloaded a bunch of songs and loaded them in my iPod, just in time for Frankie's uncle's birthday bash up at their country house, which I was going to because Frankie's mom hired me to videotape the short play she wrote for the occasion.

Before I continue that story, let's tell another one. As many of you know, Double Negative was created entirely at Friends Seminary with Friends Seminary equipment. That means the camera, the tripod, the editing equipment... and that was actually all the equipment, and it all came from Friends. So, when Jamie hired me, I assumed I'd just re-borrow the stuff.

I waltzed into school on Friday expecting to do just that, but I arrived to find nobody in the computer office. The light was on, so I wandered the halls nervously until I found one Andy Fish, our scruffy computer guy. He's leaving the job, though, and I boldly intruded on his conversation with his replacement to ask for the camera.

"I thought you had it."

No. I didn't have it.

I checked the other buidling--Dennis didn't have it, and he wasn't answering his phone.

"Well, I suppose you could borrow this one. It's really old, and kinda heavy, and it doesn't work unless its plugged into the wall. But it's all we've got left. I wonder where the real camera is?"

I trudged home with the old-ass camera and a light-ass tripod, extremely freaked out about the whole thing. Did Frankie maybe get it already and not tell me? I couldn't ask, because she was at work, and I'm not supposed to call her there anymore. So I got home and tried to plug in the old-ass piece of shit, only to find that the case contained ever piece of cable and wire you could imagine except a wall adapter.

School was closed. I had two options: I could go buy an adapter or I could beg for my own camera. After a bit of internet research, it became clear which thing I had to pick.

"Your father's not going to like this. He likes to take YEARS before major purchases. It took him three months to finish researching a twenty dollar humidifier. This is going to be your birthday present, you understand? No, put away your graduation money. I'll make him do it." And with her trusty cellphone and her trusty credit card, my awesome mom bought me this. It's beautiful and tiny enough to fit in my jacket pocket and has every feature I want at this stage in my life.

And it was that camera and the school's tripod that I brought up to Connecticut. It's a lovely place, and I was totally out of place. It was filled with Frankie's relatives and her uncle's college buddies and I was carrying around a camera and taping like a good hired hand but being introduced as Frankie's friend and it felt incongruous. So, after the play and dinner, Frankie and I sneaked up to her room to listen to Lil Kim rapping about her Chanel bathroom and imaginary dick and stuff.

It's the fourth weirdest thing in the entire world to be driven home by a stoned, lost, Terri-esque middle-aged lesbian in the dark in the middle of the night on the freeway. In hindsight, it was a good adventure, but at the time I almost FREAKED OUT and hitch-hiked home. (Alliterate.)

Movie Log:
La règle du jeu
It was interesting. Mom and dad insisted on renting this to see if I was "ready" for taking Intro to Film. They don't understand that I don't care about the intro classes, I just can't take any production classes _until_ I take those. However, this movie wasn't bad at all. It was kind of long. It certainly wasn't the best film ever made (that's _definitely_ DN. I'm so alone), but it was funny.

Bewitched
I spent this entire movie with my head half-hidden in my hands. I wasn't disgusted--I was sad. It was embarassingly bad. But the choice was between this and War of the Worlds (I voted for Mr. and Mrs. Smith but dad refused), and I don't like scary movies and I really like Tom Cruise best when he's a creepy coyote-type.
But this movie... ugh, I couldn't be there. Nicole Kidman is Not. Funny. Stop trying to be. Will Ferrell... you know, I was never his biggest fan (Elisa is, though), but he could do so much better (like Elf. Now that was a great movie). Nobody else was used at all. The only nice thing was afterwards, when I read that Kidman had Kristen Chenoweth's part written in because she liked Chenoweth's work so much.

(P.S. In the theater, the retarded projectionist showed the trailer for Rent twice. I am going to hate that movie so much. I can't wait until it comes out.)

Lazy-Ass American Summer

2005-06-29T22:45:00.000-04:00

Notes: 1) Stella was pretty awesome. 2) Every other person (me included) on Facebook lists WHAS as their favorite movie and it's Freaking Me Out.

Below: That's what happens when I'm angry.

Actual post:

So, yeah, that's what it's been. A lazy-ass summer. Every three or four days, my job calls and is like "you wanna help count some lights?" And I'm all "sure, I haven't gotten dressed in a few days" and I take the subway down and leave and take the subway back uptown on the TRANSFER from the ride downtown. If I were getting paid for this, I'd feel it important to insist on consistent hours and schedules and things, but as is, I'm content to receive phone calls like "Hey, it's [Pocahontas] from the theater... if you're around Saturday, my girlfriend needs to paint some set, and then Monday we've got a strike. Okay, call me if you want."

And so I get to sit at home and watch VH1 and argue with mom over course registration (it's not really her business what I do at college, except for the part where she pays) and be the laziest person on the planet. I mean, I've gone down to exercize a couple times and there were women talking about their GRANDCHILDREN's high school graduations and they were working out harder than I could.

The only sucky part, though, is that I don't have my own computer yet (it just shipped, and soon I will become one of them creepy Mac-people in the cult of Apple), so I can't even write or read or talk listen to music or do fun computer things. I've been trying to work on my screenplay for about three weeks (or however long I've had the idea) but by the time it's my turn for the computer my inspiration is long gone, along with my will to stand up and my ability to sit up straight.

Rocky Log:
In my drowsy-ass state, like this, Rocky is the only invigorating thing left. God I love that stuff.

Movie Log:
Batman
As in, this one. With Adam West and the following exchange:
Batman: Look at this pair of joking riddles.
Chief O'Hara: [reads] What does a turkey do when he flies upside down?
Robin: He gobbles up!
Chief O'Hara: Of course.
Batman: And, number two...
Commissioner Gordon: [reads] What weighs six ounces, sits in a tree and is very dangerous?
Robin: A sparrow with a machine gun!
Commissioner Gordon: Yes, of course.
This was Frankie's brother's genius selection, and he deserves this shoutout.

Vanilla Sky
Weird and vaguely retarded, and Tom Cruise was ugly for most of it, anyway. It's mom's favorite movie ever (I said scornfully, even though I know she knows its a bad movie and I know she just loves any movie with "weirdness" in it because she has strange fascinations with stuff like that. Whatever. I'm angry at her.)

vb5yg7uv by7 bfgv

2005-06-29T22:11:00.000-04:00

Book Log:
Movie Log:

Best Time of my Life vs. Miserable: This Time, It's Summer

2005-06-22T19:43:00.000-04:00

I can't tell if I'm miserable or having the best time of my life, so here's a back and forth.

Best Time of my Life: Spending the morning building a dance floor for the Dyke Ball and the afternoon re-editing Double Negative

Miserable: Waking up at 8 to get to work on time, being told you don't have work till noon, actually, because they forgot to call you, showing up again at noon, and being told that actually, there's no job at all.

Best Time of my Life: Writing the first four pages of an original screenplay.

Miserable: Going down to dad's office to edit their webpage, waiting four hours for the IT guy, then finding out that he's too busy to come by that day.

Best Time of my Life: Getting paid for reading Gilmore Girls recaps at dad's office.

Miserable: Going to a family event with the richer, stingier side of the family against whom its impossible not to be bitter.

Best Time of my Life: Watching some random junior freak out about college applications, then thinking suckas!

Miserable: Trying to frame a persona for the next four years--what name? what activities? what outfits? what level of socializing? what classes? what major? what's going on?

Best Time of my Life: Submitting Double Negative to film festivals.

Miserable: Having four hour, screaming, knock-down-drag-around fights with mom about the cost of the film festival submissions and fiscal responsibilty, and feeling guilty for the rest of the evening about the rage problems, and feeling unworthy of all the "Best Time"s.

"Dr. Maplewood, you're so cool."

2005-06-17T14:27:00.000-04:00

--creepy pedophile movie aaaaaaaaaah!

I hope you understood that by "tomorrow" (as in, "I'll post prom pictures tomorrow"), I meant a web developer's tomorrow, which means "eventually, if ever. But here. 28 hand-selected photographs. I also have 26 others, but they're blurry and repetitive. I also have 15 video clips (including Barry breakdancing), but I don't think photobucket hosts them. If you want them (they include, besides the electric boogaloo: Benjie and Newman tangoing; Beryl, Renee, and Adam ridin' the groove train to funkeetown; and El Kay and her date being all high school prom-y, and more!) e-mail me.

So, in other news:

1) When we saw Matt, it was really cool. And he congratulated me for representin' the gay train at Friends, which made me inexplicably pleased.

2) I have another wacky summer job!

If you'll recall, last year's led to some of my best blog postin's, so I'm hoping this year will follow in that vein. And here's my wacky experience.

First, a few weeks ago, came the job interview. I showed up in the middle of the day, and this guy named Jerry looked at me and was like "Who the fuck are you?"

"Um, I have an interview with you? I'm Laura, um, Shapiro?"

"Oh, yeah. Here, I'll page [Bergman, whom I am calling this because he has the same name as a character in a story where I made the last name Bergman]."

So he paged the production manager. Hours past. Seasons changed. A dog came up to me.

"Pet her belly. Then we'll hire you. We like it when you're nice to the dog." I couldn't tell if Jerry was joking, so I giggled. And pet the dog. For the aforementioned hours/years/eons. My chair was too high to allow for comfortable petting stance, so I kept having to shift in my seat. And every time I did, the dog would growl and Jerry would go "keep petting! don't let her down!"

And then this random Asian guy came up. I attempted to straighten up and greet him, but Jerry shot me a look and I kept petting.

The Asian guy ignored me, anyway, and addressed Jerry. "[Bergman] say what you want? He on scaffolding. Very busy."

"It's the new technical intern. Show her around."

The Asian guy looked at me, jerked his head, and walked out. I did too. The dog growled, and Jerry laughed.

The Asian guy led me through a darkened lobby into one of five theaters, where, indeed, Bergman was on the scaffolding. He called down "what did Jerry want?"

"This new technical intern."

"Oh, good! Hey, kid, could you move that chair? I want to see it in the spotlight."

This was a while ago, remember, and I had to get back to school to edit. "Um, okay, but I can't start till June 15th."

"All right, just move the chair and I'll see you June 15th."

So I did, and then I walked out. As I was leaving, he called down "oh, and what's your name?"

A few weeks later is yesterday, and that is where our story continues. Actually, first I must mentioned that a crazy old lady named Crystal (I can't improve on that name) called me and said "so are you really coming to work with us? Great! I'll see you July 16th at 10. [Bergman] works from 8 a.m. till 2 p.m., but I'll give you a little rest."

So now it is yesterday, and I arrive at 10 a.m. sharp. Crystal, looking exactly as I pictured her, appeared. "Are you the tech intern? I'm Crystal. [Bergman] actually is on vacation, so I'm going to call the lighting guy to come in. He might have something to do." She called him, and then regaled me for about an hour by reciting their summer schedule: "That Friday, then, is the Dyke ball--they're good renters, very clean. Then that Saturday we have to clean up. Then on Sunday we have the disabled theater company--they're renting for a week, and it's very interesting, what they do, but Lord knows they'll need help setting up."

Eventually, the schedule ended, and she took me on a tour of the facilities. "Now, this place used to be a fruit market, so the floor is tilted, so that they could hose stuff down, which makes it a bitch to set up this portable stage. Everything here is portable, though--even the main theater, the two hundred-seater. Now this here is the costume closet, and it is a MESS! The woman who does costume inventory here just sold her first fashion design, though, so I forgive her for not cleaning--it's this cute little bag--she promised me a copy. Anyway, we all wear a lot of hats here. Oh, and here are the props. We have crutches, pipes, whatever you need. Oh, I hear the lighting guy!"

We rushed upstairs to find an American Indian smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. (I'm going to call the lighting guy Pocahontas, in honor of that movie Frankie wants to see.) "[Pocahontas]! Here's the technical intern!" With that, Crystal disappeared.

"Hey, kid. Climb up to my office. I'll be up in a second." I climbed the ladder and began to read Light and Sound International. There was an article about lighting a Kylie Minogue concert.

Pocahontas climbed up. "That magazine is crap, man. The only good one for the business is Lighting Dimensions.. So, you know about lighting?"

"No, we always hired a guy to do that."

"All right. Well, obviously, we go by the color code here--red means 5-foot cable, green means 15-footer, et cetera. And we use fresnels and LeKos--well, nobody calls them LeKos anymore, they call 'em ellipsoidal reflector spots, because they are, but us old timers call 'em LeKos, after the inventors Levy and Kook--that's Kook with two Ks. All right, let's go downstairs. I gotta inventory the caberet theater--every theater has to have 25 working lights and enough cables to keep 'em up. I'll give you a wrench, and you can take down everything, okay? Then we'll check 'em, count 'em, and put 'em away."

So I did. He got me a ladder and a wrench, and I climbed up a good ten feet and trickily positioned myself to unscrew a 10 pound fresnel without letting it fall and break and lose everyone 300+ bucks. And then I carried it down, arranged it to hang up, and moved the ladder and took down another. Then I moved the ladder and took down a LeKo (which are harder, despite being lighter, because they're hung up even higher. And I'm short, so I was already on the second-to-top rung for the fresnels! [God, I feel hip saying "LeKo" and "fresnel"]). I did this for about three hours.

Every so often, Pocahontas would come down and say. "You know, you can take a break whenever," and take a drag from his hand-rolled cigarette, which he'd been keeping in a ten-year-old Altoids case. But why interupt such unadulterated butch-ery (heh)? It was glorious. And then, after my lunch break, I untied all the cables and arranged them by category--the red fivers, et cetera.

The moral of this story is: manual labor is much more satisfying than logging video and taking method acting classes..

Book Log:
Naked Pictures of Famous People, by Jon Stewart

I adore that man. He's quite funny. Jewish people always are.
It actually sort of reminded me of David Sedaris' first book Barrel Fever, which had the same sort of humorous fiction but was sort of crappy (that book is worth it for the Elf essay at the end, though, which is true. Sedaris is better at the truth).

Movie Log:
Batman Begins
LOUD!

It was very lesbian in that it was humorless. That's just a function of action movies, though. The gadgetry was cool, and I always like Christian Bale, but I have a feeling that Memento was Chris Nolan's exception, not his rule, because it wasn't particularly well-directed or anything.

Happiness
creepy pedophile movie aaaaaaaaaah!

Seriously, it was very interesting. The secrets behind the perfect suburban facade, or the ugliness behind the ugly computer worker's brain, and the fatness of Lara Flynn Boyle (this was clearly pre-anorexia, and she looked quite healthy).

I once proclaimed that I liked reading about pedophilia, and perhaps I still do, but I don't think I like nonconsenual pedophilia. Because this Gave. Me. The. Creeps.

Pomp, Circumstance...

2005-06-14T01:59:00.000-04:00

I saw lots of pomp ("by the power vested in me by the New York Quarterly Meeting and the Friends Seminary School Committee, with the approval and recommendation of the faculty and staff..."), but only one real circumstance--that which led to us all graduating.

Which is how I've spent the last two weeks since I've blogged. Being all ready to graduate. We finished senior projects; went on the senior retreat (lame, sentimental, hot, buggy, boring--but, hey, there was a swing!); had a Senior-Parent dinner (most of those things, but compacted into 3 hours, about five times worse, and minus the swing); partied at prom (none of those things--it was absolutely fabulous--we were the first ones there, the last ones out, and the danciest we'd ever been--and I'll post pictures tomorrow); and finally, graduated, just today. It was okay--the diploma's real, I've checked a million times--but I just don't feel sad. I feel sort of confused, and tired, and hot, and ennui-etic (not a word).

But I'm more happy. I mean, I've made a movie. I've written a screenplay. I've stage-managed 12 plays. I've acted in 7. I've assistant directed 5. I've taken five courses that claim to be college level. I've taken like twenty billion exams, about ten of them standardized. I've made biffers. I've discovered that I now can say "biffers" unironically. I've sang songs. I've made teacher-friends. I've gotten into college. I've learned about everything from fairy tales to electromagnetic forces (depending on how you defined "learned about," mind). I've done quite enough high schooling, thank you. And now I move on, as you will see in this email:

From: lshapiro@friendsseminary.org
Date: Monday, June 13th, 2005
To: lshapiro01@wesleyan.edu

whoa. this is like a clash of the eras, dude.

Congrats.

Book Log:

Grooming, Gossip, and the Evolution of Language by Robin Dunbar
Absolutely fascinating theories. How can you resist scientific studies that support the idea that language evolved as a way to make it easier to gossip? (Actually, it made it easier to have larger groups, which had other evolutionary benefits, but it's more fun to say gossip.)

Movie Log:

Double Negative
Entertaining, vivacious, and calculated to please the discriminating theatergoer.

I'm hardly the objective one on this film, though. Seeing as I'm, you know, the producer/editrix/cinematographer/feeding tube

Resevoir Dogs
OOooooooh, that was hot. It was really, really _cool_, and smart, and so, so gay. My god, Orange and White were so doing it. And then they walked around in suits and sunglasses and I sound like a stupid person on IFC.

Saving Face
This was so cute! Lesbian protagonists are never that interesting, but I'm really sympathetic towards anyone with mother issues. Plus, the girlfriend was _hot_, and it was half in Chinese, which makes everything better.

Urban Adventure
(Forgive me if it's Aventures)
This is Sam and Sam's movie. And, you know, Rie valiently and protectively kept the script from us, and I'll admit the dialogue wasn't Oscar-worthy, but it really wasn't a bad movie at all. It was really cool--lots of drugs and sex and colors and video games and dangerous camerawork.

Spiderman 2
Tobey Maguire is such a pussy. I want J.K. Simmons to be my boss, though.

Welcome to the Dollhouse
Whoa. This almost blew my mind, but not enough for me to feel changed by it. It just blew my mind because... well, wouldn't it suck to get your first film role, then read the script and realize that not only are you playing someone ugly and awkward, but that that would characterize your career forever? Well, she's a lesbian, and we'll do anybody (c.f. Rosie O'Donnell).

"Ice cream. We eat ice cream."

2005-05-31T00:39:00.000-04:00

--Random foreign guy on the pier, as we three wandered around with our ice cream bars

So I've spent about two weeks forgetting to Theater Log this play I saw. It's called Drat! The Cat, and was composed by my uncle Milton (yes, there's more than one blogger with a composer relative two generations ago). It was pretty bad. The music was okay, but the lyrics and the book... oh, Ira Levin, you kind of blow, from what I've seen of you (this and the Stepford remake). I would've loved to have seen Lesley Ann Warren in the titluar Cat role, way back in the day--she would've been hot-with-two-ts.

But the post-show party with Milton brings me to another point: me. (My second-favorite subject. I don't know the first, but I know it isn't me.) Specifically, the terrible burdens I bear for my family.

You see, I come from a rather bootstraps sort of poor Jewish stock. Everyone worked for their money and worked hard and didn't have time for luxuries and fun, and they certainly couldn't afford to be starving artists. Maybe there could be one a generation (e.g. Milton). But, recall, Jews run Hollywood. My poor Jewish stock wasn't uncreative, they just didn't have the spare time to be.

And then there's me. My folks are no longer poor. In fact, they make enough to support me the rest of my life, if I wish. So it's a probable 12:7 that I'm gonna be a creative type. And so, everyone's putting their creative-type ambitions on my shoulders. I'm Milton's favored young relative--after the show, he immediately asked me what show we did at school, and then he asked for my opinion of his baby, and then he basically ignored all the other cousins of my generation and asked me a million questions about this "film project" of mine and told me about this one actress he knows in film maybe he can introduce us? Of course he can.

Another example: last week, we had my grandpa in the house for a few days because he'd had a little stroke (he's fine now, except for the part where he has to take care of his Parkinson's-addled wife, who has gone completely demented and keeps firing the hired help and he can't handle this shit, he's like 90). So I was eating a lesuirely breakfast, reading the paper, and he starts asking me about Kiss Me Kate. So we're talking, and then he goes off on this wonderful story (he has great stories) about how, when he and Grandma were a-courtin', they and their friend Johnny would go audition at Opera houses and jazz clubs and, apparently, they were really good. They'd get callbacks, they'd be invited on national tours--but they couldn't go, because they were all working at the garment shop, which was a good steady job and you just can't give up steady work during the Depression.

And then, of course, there's my intimidating film buff of a father. He'd've died to have the guts to major in film, but he had to major in history and get the law degree--get a real job. So he sort of self-taught himself enough to have an M.F.A. in Orson Wells. I haven't even invited him to the Double Negative screening because he knows so very much. He'd never criticize my work to my face, but I just know he'll be able to tell me all the things I did wrong, if I ask (well, that we all did wrong. But he's not Frankie's father, so it probably wouldn't hurt as much. It hurts to have a parent that you know secretly doesn't actually enjoy your high school plays and shit. We have video proof, too--the Saturday night DVD of Midsummer is half focused on him yawning and looking at his watch and not even looking up unless I'm on stage).

So, yeah. I am THE creative kid. I'd better succeed. Watch the movie or read the upcoming Lit Mag and and tell me I will.

P.S. - Frankie's boobs. She told me I had to blog about today's experience or else, and I believe it can be summed up in those two wonderful, beautiful, indecent exposure-y words. (N.B.: the left one's bigger, and there are no moles on either.)

Porn, porn, porn.

2005-05-24T00:41:00.000-04:00

I've been a busy bee lately, and a lot of my occupation has been involving the birds and the. Bees.

See, as you have read, last Thursday we shot the infamous Polyhymnia Weiss sequence, before which we had to brave the cold and the weird and purchase some pornography. Well, all the good pictoral stuff was mad expensive, so we went with some small erotica books, and I got to keep them.

Having them around, naturally I began to read them. It's pure poetry in there: I reached down and gripped his cock, which was as hard as ever, and started jerking him as extensively as I could without losing an inch of cock-room in his accomodating butt. Beautiful, beautiful stuff. So beautiful, in fact, that I began to look at the bookmarks folder I have entitled "sex."

It's actually a rather dull folder--some prostitute blogs, a website I sort of want to show my physics teacher but can't, the encyclopedia definition of "pornography", and this wonderful blog about a porn clerk at a video store. The really interesting link, however, was this: "Sex tips for slash writers." Now, slash is gay fanfiction, but here I was reading gay fiction, period. And it was lyrical and wonderful and I could do better.

So, with my trusty copy of Campus Tales and my trusty link to that website, I go on to fullfil the needs of some search engine people who found my blog.

So here it is, folks. Something Special: A Campus Tale. a.k.a. "My Gay Porno."

Movie Log:
Auntie Mame
It was funny and cute at the beginning and end, but Oh! That torturously infinite middle!

The Incredibly True Adventures of Two Girls In Love
It's not incredible, not true, not much of an adventure, and the girls were such bad actors I could barely tell they were in love. I skipped the last twenty minutes out of a combination of boredom and fear of conflict (shut up).

Four Voice Mails

2005-05-18T21:08:00.000-04:00

(That's right. Even after 15 days, my blogging juices are so dry that I'm just going to give you the words of Puck)

Number One: Sunday, During the AIDS Walk
Puck: Hi, I was wondering, um, right. I'd like two pizzas, one plain and one pepperoni, (do you have pepperoni? (giggle) pepperoni?) Please deliver it to the AIDSwalk New York. Wait, are we in San Fransisco? (giggle)
Moonshine: Not San Fransisco, not LA.
Puck: Oh, so, do you have pepperoni? (giggle) Check, I'm not sure if you still have any. Last time I ordered from here, you were all out, so go check. Ooh, oranges. We need some oranges. Oh, so, do you have any (giggle) Puerto Rican prostitutes? No? What about Pepperoni? So, deliver to AIDSwalk New York--are we in LA? New York. We're wearing red and white. So, do you have pepperoni? (giggle) Do you have pepperoni? Thanks hon. Now I want oranges. Bye bitch.

Number Two: Sunday, During the AIDS Walk
Puck: (in his girly voice) Hiii! This Veronica from Dildos (giggle) Incorporated. We've got the spiked dog collars for your vaginal opening, they're here, along with your nipple piercings, shaped like, um, women
Moonshine: (LAUGH)
Puck: We also have your beastality collar, as well as a tool to get into your select animal more easily (giggle). So, you ordered all that, and--oh! Since you're such a valued customer
Moonshine: (surreptitiously) "Thousanth order."
Puck: Right, (giggle) its your 1000th order, so we're throwing in an OrgasmMaster1000 (giggle) spiked dildo chain. It causes some internal bleeding (giggle), so we advise you don't use it that often. Also (giggle), do you have pepperoni? (giggle) No pepperoni? Do you? Okay, bye.

Number Three: Sunday, During the AIDS Walk
Puck: (in the "voice" of his history teacher) This is Bob from the, uh, Lesbian Strip Club (giggle). You, uh, left your wallet inside one of our hookers--the one named Crystal Sexington (giggle). So, uhhh, come pick her up. We can't get the wallet out; it's inside her body. I mean, we'll kill her, she has no value... as a person. Oh, and do you have pepperoni? Pepperoni? Bye.

Number Four: This Morning, During School
Puck: Did it beep yet? (giggle) Say it!
The School Nurse: "Pepperoni. Do you have pepperoni?"
Puck: (GIGGLE)

FINIS

Movie Log:
Raise Your Voice
Best. Movie. Ever. I still support La Lohan, but Duff sings a mean (and by mean, I mean mean to the composer) "Caro Mio Bien."
Maurice
Not enough gay sex. There was one gay sex scene, but not the one we wanted. Some pretty erotic hair stroking, though.
As a movie, it was fine. The book was better.

Stupid White Chick

2005-05-04T15:29:00.000-04:00

Technically, I'm not blogging(1). I'm banned from the Internet till after my A.P. Physics test on Monday, so I'm Not Online. I'm writing this on scraps of physics work and baking it into a cake and putting it on the cover of the Lit Mag (oh, you'll see).

So, since I'm not allowed on the computer, and have a new curfew of 5:00, and am sequestered in my red brick tower, I'll tell you a story.

The story is from a long-ass time ago, actually. It's from the week before the play. Moonshine and Puck had just bought their toy guns (Moonshine's was a huge sawed-off shotgun, Puck's was a little cap-gun), and were having a dandy ole' time running around the courtyard and shooting people--their tenth-grade groupies, their teacher-soulmate David Smith, and especially me. But suddenly, a boy in their grade grabbed it.

"Yo, dudes, this a .38?"

The OTP looked at each other bemusedly. "I guess," Moonshine offered.

"A'ight, I gonna bring this down to the boys. They'll tell ya." And with that, the boy (Justin? I think that's his name) grabbed the guns and ran down a staircase. The boys hurried after him, and I scurried after them.

The staircase led down into the school Fitness Center--I think of it as a torture room, because of the many excrutiating PE classes I've spent in there, but in reality, it's a nice expensive room filled with state-of-the-art treadmills and bench-presses and farthingales and things. We entered the room in single file. Tall Moonshine and Puck blocked my view, but their nervous giggles made me curious, so I sneaked around them to take a look.

The Center was filled with all the black kids in our entire school.

Well, maybe not all of them. It was probably only about eight kids, but still, there they were. I felt extremely awkward, not just because of the differences in our pigmentation, but because they had ghettoed themselves off like that. The boys were working out, while a few girls sat in the corner reading the back of a DVD label and filing their nails. These were good kids--happy kids, well-adjusted, decent academics, good atheletes, etc. And yet, they got SO EXCITED over this gun. It became a back-and-forth "Is it a .38? Nah, man, it's a Magnum! Like Diddy's got!" "No, man it's like the one that busted up Fiddy's face." It was playing into every stereotype I had never EVER allowed myself to think about. Bear in mind that our esteemed institution was ranked the top private school for diversity issues (or whatever) in the city. We don't think in terms of stereotypes. We transcend them. Everyone is EQUAL. Nobody acts like they do on TELEVISION. I KNOW this. I am a LIBERAL. This was FUCKING WITH MY WORLDVIEW.

Moonshine and Puck didn't seem too concerned about their worldviews, however; they were concerned about their guns. I'm sure you've heard of their affinity towards rap and hip-hop (specifically Li'l Kim--they ADORE her). Well, their faux-ebonics went right down the toilet. They were squeaky white privledged boys again (well, not squeaky. But Puck, at least, went up an entire octave), giggling nervously and agreeing . And thus, it was a squeaky white voice that whispered "Can you, uh, get the guns back? They won't shoot a girl" into my ear.

I approached the circle. One guy had stuck Puck's revolver down his pants and was making incomprehensible phallic jokes. The other boys were laughing. They were also _still_ arguing over the make of the toy pistol, comparing their street cred. They were more stereotypical than the really ghizzeto public school kids from across the street (recall that the school across the street was ranked the 8th most dangerous and bad-ass in the city. The kids are, by the way, are just misunderstood and under-opportunitied)--it was as if they were trying to prove something. Just because they're in a school that can afford a fitness center doesn't mean they're not going to pretend to be in a prison exercise yard while there. Or something. But, as Puck had suspected, they handed the gun to me wordlessly when I asked for it, and I was quickly escorted back to the safe, non-confusing world where I wasn't afraid that the mere act of observing people made me racist. (Until, that is, David Smith admitted that his best drag was his Beyoncé, and that it even topped his Britney, because he's black.)

(I) Also technically, you're a gay man. And biologically, it wasn't her real last name.

Book Log:
The Virgin Suicides, by Jeffery Euginides
Pretentious crap. Utterly so. Crap crap crap crap crap. Boring, useless crap. Masturbatory creepy semi-erotic fantasy. The worst part is the point of view--a generic boy in the town who had a crush on five sisters, as did all the boys in the town, and he's just the voice for all of them, and it's told as if it were a trial or something, and it's WEIRD. And the eroticism of the descriptions is too deliberately creepy to be artsy.
Movie Log:
Woman of the Year
I like Katherine Hepburn. She's really cool. And Mr. Tracy is cute in that clueless blond way. The ending was unsatisfyingly pre-feminist, but it was made a while back.
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Oh, it was _wonderful_! I don't care what the purists say--they neglect to realize how much the Guide was an evolving organic _thing_, that the radio show was different from the book was different from the TV show was different from what Adams' would have written if he'd had full creative control over the movie. He made up a lot of the shit in the movie that wasn't in the books!
Also, it was a really fun movie. I laughed more than I have at anything in quite some time, and there was a catchy song that I could download, and there was a really cute girl. The cast was outstanding all around--I didn't have an issue with any piece of casting. That's rare-ass.
Stage Beauty
Gender-bending crapfest. Or so I would assume, as I was half-asleep for the duration. I got to see Claire Danes play Ophelia, though, which was Not Pretty, and Billy Crudup be all "I was TRAINED to play a woman! I AM a woman! I am too faggy to play a man!" and then play a man because of the power of Lurve, which was Not Pretty, Either.

Amorous Defenses

2005-04-23T22:58:00.000-04:00

N.B.: this title is witty because it's the title of a crappy poem I wrote in the tenth grade _and_ it is germane to this post.

Oh, man, I have so much to say. Where to begin?

Do I begin by coming to the unsolicited (actually, anti-solicited; when I told T-moz I wanted to write a desperate plea for her clemency, she told me that I needn't bother, but I want to!) defense of my beloved? (Does calling her "my beloved" destroy my argument?)
Do I begin by raving over how Moonshine and Puck are the best costars ever, and how, despite the fact that they twist my boobs for good luck and threaten to "shove [their] hands up [my] vag[ina, pronounced vah-geh] and pull out [my] vital organs" and stuff, they're really the sweetest boys on earth?
Do I begin by retracting all previous statements about never acting again, after that applause I got (applause is like crack-cocaine: addictive. And smoked by poor people)?
Do I begin with my rather uneventful father's-side Seder (well, one event: my aunt gave me this awesome pair of chunky boots)?

I'll go in that order. So: I can't defend all of Frankie's actions, because she doesn't want me to and it's not my place and nobody would listen, anyway. But I can provide some background for the Amelia thing. Look, Frankie's a fabulous story-teller, and her rendition of the seventh-grade breakup was told very well, with a fine attention to detail and a delightfully humorous overtone. But that version does not at allcapture how incredibly huge an impact the main event had on her. She spent eighth grade hiding in a mother-fucking bathroom stall every lunch period because she was afraid to go back to the cafeteria, wherein lay her ex. It is simply an extremely formative event in when one becomes a social pariah. She went from having a nice clique of sweet girls (Martha and Lia-Mabel are the nicest gals around [and, mind you, Frankie knows this and has never had any intention of harming or insulting them, no matter how unclear that is in retrospect], and I assume she considered Amelia likewise until the whole "bitch-from-hell" thing) to having NO ONE. Yeah, the entry says she had Elk, but she didn't really count that at the time (they were friends for like a month of the seventh grade and then they weren't really in eighth and then they got real close in ninth and haven't un-closened since). It was a terrible, horrible, no-good thing, and it has scarred her immensely, to the point when she has legitmate social fears about putting herself out there in person. (Look back on my blog. Look for entries that involve group social gatherings. Look for those not at Frankie's house. Look for Frankie's presence. Look harder. It still won't be there.)

To give an analogous story: I was an early talker--started at 8 months and refused to shut up. I was a language enthusiast, asking my mom if the 3K89 on my taxi was a letter or a number and reading legal shit over dad's shoulder and learning words like "parameters." I was also a kid with A.D.D.-esque-ness and joie de vivre, so whenever they announced recess in pre-school I would jump up and cry "hooray!" Now, one day, the 24-year old fat bitch (read: "homely and dumb and slutty"--one NEVER gets over these things) of a student-teacher shouted at me "Will you just shut up already?"

So I did. I shut up for seven months. I talked to nobody but my parents, my five-month-old sister, and my boyfriend (whole 'nother story), and to them only in a whisper. It was painful as all hell--I knew how to read the word on the board! I could count to ten! I wanted more juice!--but she told me to shut up, therefore I just. could. not. speak. At all. No matter what. I probably wouldn't have screamed if the archtypical man in a van with candy had whisked me away. Not after what Miss Pig had said.

Of course, we didn't know all this at first. All we knew was that this was a psychological condition caused elective mutism and there's sometimes a traumatic event at the core, but mom just couldn't get to the bottom of it. So we found a fabulous shrink, whom I still see to this day, and she got to the route of everything. But that's not the point. The point is that I've seen Miss Pig again since then, and I could think of nothing but "you dumb homely slut fat bitch whore motherfucking cuntface" (well, technically, I was eight when I saw her again, so minus a few of those words). Perhaps she's a very nice person. But she ruined my life, and I cannot look at her objectively.

Whoa. That was a long tangent. Uh, what else did I promise to blog about at the beginning? Moonshine and Puck: they're great. Moonshine missed a line during the song last night, and for the rest of the song, Puck was making random intentional mistakes to make Moonshine look better. They're both just so funny, onstage and off, and adorable and pretty and witty and bright (especially Moonshine's teeth).

What else? I like applause; I like really cool boots (probably as a result of the two people in the previous paragraph).

Book Log:
Diary, by Chuck Palahnuik
All these Terri Schaivo jokes have made me unable to see the words "coma," "persistent vegitative state," and "feeding tube" without giggling, so this book was hard to get through.

No Good Deed, etc.

2005-04-12T22:30:00.000-04:00

(Markedly similar to this title but even more appropriate for my story.)

So, today was blood-drive day, and for the past four years (or however long they've had this), I'd been dying to give. I like getting community service credit, and I like generally doing good deeds, and I would get a free t-shirt, and I especially like getting free clothing.

So after a long hard slog of Calc and Physics, I scurried over to the dance studio. I should have known it wasn't meant to be when I had a conditional attached every other qualifying question on the sheet (well, I never had TB, but I was once a carrier... I was on Accutane, but not in the last 6 months, exactly...). But still, I'd started this, and I was gonna stoicly make my way through. So in went the needle, and out went the blood. And then, not at all light-headed (I'd felt that way all day! I just hadn't gotten enough sleep!), I grabbed some of the free pizza and went to wait for Frankie to finish a test.

So Elk and I were sitting there, in the 4th floor hallway outside the bathrooms, and catching our breaths--four flights is a lot when you've just lost over 10% of your blood. (Not that I was affected in any way, of course. I always pant with that intensity after stairs--I'm just out of shape!)

Suddenly, I started sweating. My heart was beating really fast. I could not finish my bite of pizza, so I stood to throw it out. I ran over to the water fountain, took some, threw off my jacket, stumbled over to L.K. and said "I feel... weird."

And stoically I fell. This is where the story becomes a vague amalgam of what people told me. As far as I can make out, I sort of slid down the wall. Elk screamed. Veggie (the art teacher whose test F was taking--his name rhymes with a vegetable and he's a fruit), a kindly IT guy, and an art teacher with her arm in a sling ran over. I was gasping a little, so they turned me over and lifted me up a little, and I was tinted green. After somewhere between 2-30 seconds of panic and passed-outted-ness, I awoke to a circle of faces.

Of course, that's not how I saw it. My version goes that suddenly, for an infinitely large or small amount of time, I was swimming through something vaguely pink that smelled like the place I worked this summer. It was very pretty until I heard my name and realized that I hadn't been there a second ago, and opened my eyes to see a circle of faces.

It was an interesting experience. My mom was all worried and "I told you so!", but at the time, I was merely enjoying the attention and comfort offered. They pulled the nurse (ho!) out of a meeting, and the guy running the blood drive called my mom to reassure her, and Frankie even skipped French to, er, comfort me. I later found out that I wasn't the only one--Benjie passed out for literally 3 seconds, and Rie-baby blogged her story, too. I got a great story out of it, nonetheless.

And hey, the t-shirt's really comfy.

"He just wants to see boys' Linuses."

2005-04-11T00:41:00.000-04:00

--A rather fey mama's boy on a rather closeted gay guy on Arrested Development.

Oh, Saturday rehearsals. Saturday rehearsals are where I've made all my friends. In the 9th grade, okay, not true, but in the 10th grade, I hung out with Jaya/Frankie/Rie for the first time after a Saturday. I guess that doesn't really merit broad generalizations, then.

This one was pretty awesome, though. Moonshine and Puck have discovered that I am enormously ticklish, particularly on my boobs, and that no matter how much they abuse me, as soon as I adjust my bra I'll come back to sit by them. They are using this extensively to their advantage. It's rather like on an episode of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" Frankie and I watched yesterday--they were making over a frat house, and Carson Kressley would. not. stop tickling this one guy whom the frat called "Giggles." (They remind me of Carson in other ways, too. What? I mean in their fashion sense! Honest!)

Let's see, what else is going on? Well, my favorite couple on The L Word are fucking adorable, and it makes me sad to know that they'll have to break up because TV relationships do that. Do real relationships always break up? My folks are still together. That's a good sign, right? But... they're not adorable. But they never were. Well, Dad was once skinnier. But that's not adorable, because he was already bald. Also, he and mom weren't lesbians in emo glasses. I fucking love emo-glasses, not for the sentiment, but for the way they frame people's faces and make them look hot-with-two-ts. I'm taking the ones we used for Donald in Double Negative and... I dunno, imagining them on Leisha Hailey?

Edited to add! I forgot an entire topic about which I meant to blog.
So, we had "Apple Day" on Friday, which was the Exploring New York City version of our annual dull-as-fuck overly-P.C. "Diversity Day." It was rather okay, as I missed most of the "Diversity" part because my walking tour was stuck in Queens with one of the feyest straight men ever, a math teacher who is also a devout Quaker and sincere fellow, overall. Also present was Yahweh and another ninth grader I'll call the Mute, because he lacks a Tongue and also talks alot. So I spent some of the trip half-gossiping to Monseuir Drellich about whatever, some of it actually paying attention, but most of it eavesdropping on Yahweh and the Mute. They were having a lovely conversation about dead babies. It's the new meal at McDonalds, apparently. Also, I overheard this exchange:

Yahweh: So, if you weren't the walrus, and I put a gun to your head, would you rather eat walrus or manatee.
Mute: instantly Walrus, totally. There's something dirty about a manatee.

The main thing I learned on A-Day, though, was that municipal historians are really boring. "And here is where John Bowne lived. He was acquanted with James Fayette, who dated [Feyrish the Teacher]'s grandmother. Also, Jack Murray once had a slave named Sally." And this is their life. They pour over old diaries and shit in order to find out such fascinating and relevant historical information as this, and they are rewarded with obscurity and _maybe_ a Ph.D. Maybe. And as my Spanish teacher said someone else told him, "a Ph.D does not change your life at all, except that you're a lot poorer afterwards."

Movie Log:
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
It was cute. There were random gay gymnasts and pointy-boobed Jane Russel and Marilyn Monroe being all "whee, tiara!" A great buddy-comedy for chicks. With musical numbers, because we chicks like musical numbers. This article on Spamalot espouses the same theory, actually: girls like songs and boys like jokes. Even though the comparison is between 'songs' (catchy tunes that, musically, sort of suck) like Wicked and 'jokes' (skits from a movie that they've fucking seen before, many times). I like jokes, too, but I like them more in song.

Swoon
Frankie has her periods of obsession, and she's come off one weird abusive gay relationship and onto the next. This is the next in her series of Leopold and Loeb stories, and it's the gayest so far--actual kissing and femoral intercourse! (a.k.a. thigh-sex) (I'm _positive_ I once blogged about all the femoral intercourse Abe Lincoln had, but I can't find it and I keep getting distracted by my witty archives.)
Anyway, the movie was really weird and artsy--made in '92 but shot in black and white with drag queens and intentional anachronisms like dialing-noises on phones and shit. But it definitely held my attention, and not just through the gay. It was just fascinating.

"One more racist comment out of you..."

2005-04-03T00:45:00.000-05:00

--Frankie, Puck, or Me, all quoting Puck, on the topic of _anything_. I don't want to call him Puck. But I'll go with it.

So I've spent the weekend in an odd sort of college worry state. I've been having a lot of bang 'em up fights and subsequent crying sessions with my mother, moreso than usual, and people are telling me that it's probably seperation anxiety. On Tuesday, around 12:45 am, I called Frankie crying, to say "you're all going to California and I'm going to be sad!" (to which she replied helpfully "We sure are going, and I'm sure you'll be sad"). Today I intended to do high-school homework but instead I made lists of courses and clubs I want to take and join in college. And then I made lists of dorms, and then I checked to make sure my calling plan went to CA (it does, so expect some contact, Msses. T-moz Ma and Elk).

And then I watched movies. I figure I can stop when I've seen as many as Roger Ebert (you have to check his Chicago-Sun Times archives out; he's seen every single movie since around 1965.)

Two very important deaths in the history of Christians have occured, and I don't care, because they had so much more impact alive. Well, if you can call Schiavo's state "alive," and I dunno if you can, because I'm not a rocket scientist, and even if I were, what would a rocket scientist know about persistent vegitative states?

Speaking of rocket scientists, check out this cool Astronomy-style picture. That site is kinda awesome. I dig the April Fool's picture, too. Water on Mars!

Movie Log:

Silence of the Lambs
I finally got around to watching this, after having read it and its screenplay for preperation for my senior project. Now, call me insensitive, but it's not that scary. It's not like the blood was real, and nobody popped out of any corners. Of course, suspense is the thing that really gets me, and I had the screenplay in my hands, so no worry could build up.

The Celluoid Closet
Oh, teh gay! So much of it! And so many movies including teh gay that we must rent! Especially "Algie the Miner (1912)," because random miners in makeup dancing silently are awesome.

Murder by Numbers
Oh, teh gay! So much of it! And so much the director ignoring it! Because, see, we went back and watched some of the gayest scenes (the cool blond has the shy brunet against a wall and is strangling him and pushing back his hair all romantically all at once and asking "did you fuck her? because she doesn't understand you. She doesn't deserve you!"), and the director is all "so, in this scene, we had two cameras, so we could have both the actors at once, which was interesting, I think, because Panasonic lent us the cameras on an experimental basis..." When Frankie and I do a Double Negative commentary, we're gonna be so much cooler. We'll tell Rule Number 5. Over and over again. Oh baby.

Beauty Shop
It was cute. That Queen Latifah sure is sassy. (Also, a totaly lesbian, according to many unsubstantiated rumors that I choose to believe.) And that Alicia Silverstone is cute, and the only grating thing was the random Maya Angelou spouting old lady. And Djimon Hounsou has really bright teeth when he smiles.

"They forgot the darn WEED!"

2005-03-28T15:53:00.000-05:00

--Elk, at her Elkiest, duringHarold and Kumar.

Man, I have so much I could blog about. I haven't blogged since production of Double Negative started (going great, as you can see). I haven't blogged since my grandfather had an attack of congestive heart failure. I haven't blogged since I went to a retarded bat mitzvah. I haven't blogged since last Sunday.

So, where to begin? I love being a camera-person/cinematographer/whatever. I hate it when people get sick, especially Grandpa because he and grandma practically raised me 'cause they were our babysitters. I hate being involved in religious ceremony, but I love thinking about the way culture works to make people involved in religion (the Times magazine's non-shocking but still-interesting article on a megachurch also made me think about that). And I sure have had a week since last Sunday.

Book Log:
Shadow of the Giant, by Orson Scott Card
You'll all recall my weird encounter with this fellow a few weeks ago. Well, this was a genius-ass book. Very politically and militarily smart. Very dismissive of Muslims and pro-life, too, but it was still fascinating. Damn you, Card! Stop making me enjoy your work!

The Tipping Point, by Malcolm Gladwell
Oh, man, Frankie lent this to me, saying that she could not put it down (she mimed it, actually--she was in the store flipping through books, and she found this one, and she immediately started reading in some sort of stupor). And it's friggin' amazing! It's about social epidemics and stuff--everything from Sesame Street to Airwalk shoes to syphilis in Baltimore to New York City crime to random Japanese restaurants. He postulated three rules of how things spread, and gave characteristics of really cool kinds of people, and cited awesome studies, and I loved it. I read through the freakin' endnotes because I didn't want the book to end.

Movie Log:
New York Minute
This movie most certainly did not cause me to jump up in my seat and shout "no!" at the climactic mishap. Poor Ashley's-character.
Oh, and there was lots of gross Twincest!Nay. Seriously, real twins don't hug like that.

My Own Private Idaho
This movie was so weird and pretentious and cool. Henry IV and Henry V told through Keanu Reeves as a street-hooker in Seattle, plus River Pheonix crying and being all pretty and in love with straight-ass Keanu. Frankie and I dubbed this "The Crying of Gay-Ass Bunny."

Eurotrip
This had the one really awesome conceit of the song "Scotty Doesn't Know," but otherwise it was negliable.

Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle
I saw about 2/3 of this, and really want to see the rest, because it was rather smart for a stoner comedy. Funny stuff.

Lost in La Mancha
Most. Depressing. Documentary. It's about the mishaps that befall Terry Gilliam while trying to make his long-dreamed-of production of "Don Quixote." And oh, the mishaps! First, Don Quixote has ass-pains. Then one of the actresses has issues with her contract. Once everyone's there and filming, they discover that one of their outdoor locations, a pristine, dry Spanish desert, is right next to military training. After the planes stop, there are more noises. Somebody points out "That's not the F-16s. That's thunder." Mudslides try to steal the equipment. After the storm, the entire color of the desert has changed, which ruins the whole thing. The Quioxte's ass-pains turn out to be serious, and the project dies. I almost cried. At least Double Negative doesn't have expensive equipment or deserts.

The Incredibles
This was so cool! And very sweet, too. I can't believe I hadn't seen it yet--all the good reviews were absolutely true.

"She's too neurotic to actually be one, but she's totally a closeted hippie."

2005-03-20T13:26:00.000-05:00

--Tracy, on me.

I can now cross one thing off my list of "high school rites of passage left." I went to a party with folks from my own school! It was kinda okay, fun wise! Tequila tastes like apple juice mixed with alcohol and homeless-person piss! I actually felt kinda high until I felt compelled to surpress it for a bit to fix the TV, because I feel too many obligations!

In other news, I was just watching Saturday Night Live, because I am a masochist, and was treated (ugh) with a reprise of an awful skit called "Gays in Space." Basically, it's supposed to be a very small budget TV show about Timothy, Kevin D., Thad, and Billiam wearing pink-and-silver short-short jumpsuits and getting into wacky misadventures on a spaceship. In the first one, they ran into a ship of lesbians. In this one, they crash-landed on a planet of large, muscular gay dudes.

Now, slap me on the ass and call me Wilma Wetblanket, but this segment offends the fuck out of me. I mean, first of all, I've caught the Frank's hatred of the phrase "gays." Second of all, all that mincing and lisping and stuff? It'd be funny, maybe, if it were meant ironically. Like, if it were a comment on the way gay culture is perceived. But it just makes me feel dirty, like it's my fault for objectifying cute little gay men and now SNL is making fun of them and I'm supposed to squee and I can't because I'm a lesbian. Or something.

Theater Log:
Orson's Shadow, by Austin Pendleton
We had to see this, of course, because my father is rather obsessed with Orson Wells. So off we trekked, he and mom and me and my paternal Grandmother (who couldn't hear a thing despite the small size and great acoustics of the theater--hearing aid much?). It was an okay play--I tried to take notes for a full review, but most of my notes were "stop being so pretentious"; "shut up Vivien,"; "shut up Larry,"; (did I mention that the characters were Orson Wells, Vivien Leigh, Lawerence Olivier, Ken Thefamoustheatrecritic, and Joan Plowright?); "Orson keeps making fun of his weight,"; and "arch! I get it!"

That last bit is a reference to the lesson that my english teacher has been trying to teach us this week. We've been making the transition from essays to fiction in the form of memoirs, and the problem he's noted in all of ours is "archness." He sort of describes archness as self-referential winking at the readers. This play was incredibly arch and annoying--at the begining, Ken Theatrecritic turned to the audience, his face spotlighted (I HATED the lighting), and said "I didn't want to turn this boy into a deposit for bad exposition. You know, like the maid in the first scene answering the phone. 'Is Orson Wells in? No, he's in the garden brooding. Over having been exiled from Hollywood, of course. Oh, you don't know about that? Well, they never forgave him for Citizen Kane. What's Kane, you say? Only the best film ever. I particularly liked the tracking shots.'" ARRRGH! You just said you didn't WANT to have clumsy exposition, asshole, and through making fun of such things, you fucking clumsily fucking exposited. I get it, Mr. S! I understand why archness sucks so fucking badly!

Book Log:
Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden
I liked this book okay. I love reading descriptions of elaborate rituals, like geishadom. The scheming and gossip was fun, too--some female traits are universal.
This book, however, inspired me to go around asking everyone (and by everyone I mean Frankie and my parents): which Asian country is most popular in the West? India has yoga and Indian food and mysticism, but Japan has anime and sushi and all kindsa stuff.

Forrest Gump, by Winston Groom
I fucking hate this book. Dennis, bless him, had good intentions in buying it (Academy Award winning adaptation--research for my may project of adapting a screenplay), but it just infuriated me. I just can't take the message that retarded people are better than regular people because they'll just go along taking life as it is and thus have the chance to: be a champion football player; be a war hero; meet two presidents; be an expert physicist/rocket scientist; be an expert chess player; be an expert harmonica player; be an expert ping pong player; save Mao Tse-Tung's life; be a champion wrestler; and get the girl. Also, it passed plausibility around the time of war heroism.

Movie Log:
Death Factory
It doesn't get any crappier than this. I loved it. I saw it at the house Frankie's ex-love interest, a connoisseur of crap. It was so awesomely bad that we're going to have to eitehr remaking it as a comedy or write a sequel--either way, I wanna play the girl who was TOTALLY NOT a lesbian, you guys, and she'll cut you if you say otherwise. Bitch.

Other Relevant Movie Log Note:
At the aforementioned high school party, there was a viewing of Legally Blonde, and I am so very fond of this one dorky character that I looked him up, and who might he be but Anthony Perkins' Son!

I do not avoid the cheesemakers, Jehovah, but I do deny them my essence.

2005-03-14T23:35:00.000-05:00

--a vague amalgam of quotes from the two movies I logged.

Happy Pi day, y'all!

In honor of Pi day, the Freshman Boy from chorus on whom I have a "raging unrequited asexual maternal crush" recited, like, 50 digits of decimals of pi, which was sort of amazing. He's so UP about everything all the time, so enthusiatic. I love it when people are _excited_ about things they do.

What made me really happy today was when Sam Rab (a.k.a. Wonder Boy) told me that my enthusiasm in chorus was what encouraged him to remain upbeat. Now, the thing about Rab is that there have been honest-to-god speculations that he was on methamphetamines, because he is So. Fucking. Energetic. He is always so joyful, and strong, and operatic. It made me proud to be the energy inspiration to him. And I owe it to Freshman Boy (who I am going to refer to as Trinidad, because bear with me), because his pizazz is what makes me not be embarrassed to be excited. (Also, his extremely cute interactions with his friend [who we used to call Other Freshman Boy but who I will now be sacreligious and call Yahweh] help--they're cute in a friend way and in a vague pre-pubescent HoYay way.) So, yay!

Also: My dream involved soldiers and doughnuts, and I woke up with the understanding that it was about seperation anxieties from my friends. No, I don't get it.

Movie Log:
Monty Python's The Life of Brian
On Friday, I went to Sick!Frankie's house for videos and comforting (of both her for her sickness and me for my seperation anxieties. Shut up.)
Anyway, we made a trade, video-wise: I'd force her to see Zoolander (because it's just necessary for cultural references, and Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller are totally doin' it) and she'd force me to see this (because it's just necessary for cultural references, and Monty Python is the bee's knees like whoa.. I suppose I got the better deal, because Monty Python was, in deed, funnier. Though not as funny as other Python movies.

Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
Call me crazy, but I didn't stop worrying at all. I HATE the bomb. Damn you, nuclear-reactive hydrogen! Damn you to hell!
This was pretty funny, too. At this point, more of an artifact than a relevant piece of wit and satire, but artifacts are important too.

Shadow of the Giant (that Giant being the G-O-D)

2005-03-08T23:00:00.000-05:00

Today was chock full-o-religion.

Second period today, in Government, We discussed a first-amendment questionable case about Nazis claiming their rights to yell about killing all the dirty Jews in a small Jewish town. Philip Brest, the read-headed (edit: also red) genius staunch Jew who will be President, walked in (to wait for his next class) just as one of the class members read aloud the word "Nazi." "Jesus," he said, "Did you time your lesson so that I would walk in to hear about that?"

Sixth period today, in the deli, Moonshine and Puck began making fun of an unfortunate classmate (behind hisorher back) whose hoodie made himorher look bald. "What's heorshe, a fuckin' skinhead Nazi?" "Yeah, you go kill a bunch of people because they're not the same religion as you! Huh, classmate?"

Seventh period today, in the student center, some random kid pipes up with his Borat-from-Da-Ali-G-Show impression: "So, Liza Minelli: keep in the ghetto or train to Auschwitz?"

And then there was my surreal after-school activity. I was to take my sister to a book signing of an author we both rather enjoy (though she's always been the bigger fan and I've been turned off lately by his political leanings. So I'd anticipated a little "blue state" joke, which I got, and I'd anticipated some weird Mormonism, which I got.

Now, OSC gives me fits for a variety of reasons, but the main reason is that, despite his politics, I love his work. He's a genius writer--I just started the new book that he was promoting, and it's WONDERFUL. He is a very good storyteller with great characterizations and fabulous psychological and poli-social depth. And yet... he's a Republican. A Mormon Republican. The only books of his I'd ever read outside the main, popular series was a weird series about people living on a Earth-like planet going back to regular Earth, which I dropped like so many hotcakes when I found out that it was a sci-fi retelling of the book of Mormon. (I also dropped it like so many hotcakes on the subway, which is why I really stopped reading it.)

So I was feeling hot-and-cold the whole question and answer session: hot when he was all "My two favorite sci-fi movies? Being John Malkovich and... that one by that guy from this year"; cold when he was all "oh, well, you know, I don't really hate anyone past seeing his good attributes, though this is a blue state, so George W. Bush might be on your lists"; endeared when he admitted that he cried at Sleepless in Seattle; put off when he mentioned God, which he did a lot.

On the line till autography signing, I was reading the first few chapters of the new book, and I was all set to like him. It was that good. I'd also decided that we'd purchase a member of his "Women of the Book of Genesis" series--the Leah and Rachel edition, because CATFIGHT! So first, we're on line, and we pass a pair of guys in yarmulkes. They're standing next to a hott lesbian couple (a mohawked emokid and a sweet-faced purplette). "But, David, it says in the bible plain as day that it's an abomination!" "Yes, but this isn't Israel, Samuel. There are all these liberties here. It's not the bible." "But... but... Leviticus, Dave!" The lesbians don't seem to hear them. Nobody does, but me.

So we're still waiting in line, and we pass the current affairs shelf. I see a scary-ass blonde starring at me from the shelf. "Oh, Le, check it, that's Ann Coulter. She's insane." The couple behind me, who seemed like ordinary college kids, immediately started talking loudly. "So, I went to see the Gates the other day, and I got to talking with some lady, and it came out that I'm a conservative, and she started screaming at me, being all 'I thought you were smart!' and I was all 'how does it feel to live with so much hate?' And you know who says some really deep stuff about close-minded liberals? Ann Coulter. Here, look at the opening passage of How to Talk to a Liberal (if you must). Deep stuff." I then proceeded to ignore them and listen to the cute trio of Asian couples in front of me, who were all having an adorably geeky wankfest about stat abilities on some online game that sounded really cool (I mean, I'm not a geek. I don't play MMPORPGs...)

So then I arrived at the table, giddy, and he said "hellooo! Ooh, Rachel and Leah! Who's it for?" I awkwardly pointed to myself and said "Shar... Shap... just Laura" (I don't know my own name, need to establish a full-time nickname) and he said "okay, Laura!" As he started to write "Dear Laura," I burst out with "you're very smart!" "Uh, okay..." he said, startled. "I just read the first few bits of the new book. While on line. Not that you made us wait. I read fast. Yeah," I said, by way of explanation. "Oh, okay!" He then signed it. I took it from him, and as my sister stepped up for autograph, I looked at the inscription. I then proceeded to fall down, in shock, laughter, and general WTFOMGBBQ!?!?!?!?!/!?!!1!?/BACKSLASHONE!-ness. It read:

Dear Laura-
One man, one woman --
a law we can live with!

Orson Scott Card

Now, I know that the book's about the polygamist polygamy this side of the bible, but dude, propagandize much?

It's so weird when smart people have different opinions than I do. Imma study religion when I grow up. My artsy first novel idea is all about religion anyway. Cults and Christianity and $cientology (and Hott Hairy Russian Men having sex with Lovely Lithe American Boys, but that's not religion, that's teh gay, my other obsession).

"It's going well in Vietnam, heh? Killing lots of Commies?"

2005-03-05T19:59:00.000-05:00

--what the totally edgy socialist said to the cop (he said it in French, but whatever) while his friend spray-painted "Peace in Vietnam" on the other side of the cop car. Deep, man.

So, as a spoiled rich upper-east-side private-schooler, I received a "happy getting into college!" iPod. I'm very guilty about it (where did they find a spare $400 bucks when I'm forcing them to spend a bajillion dollars sending me to school to take courses like "Cosmic Dissolution/Evolution?" or "Melodrama and the Woman's Picture" and other such job-pool relevant things), but I'm also very pleased with it. The first few hundred songs I added were all stuff I listened to in middle school, the Magnetic Fields, and showtunes so I'm feeling nostalgic, and deep, and gay all the time. I was gonna write something about how cool it was to walk while listening to a song I hadn't walked to in four years, but then I remembered that stupid sexy Frankie already did it.

As I was nostalging, however, I was walking to meet my folks. My sister was off on the mandatory school skiing trip (see: spoiled private school), so they were all "let's go to the East Village and eat in a Jewish deli and watch black and white French movies and do things to pretend we're cool and young," like they are when Elisa's not around (she dislikes deli, dismisses black and white as old, and complains of eye-strain at subtitles). It's actually sort of weird to hang out with them, because I feel compelled to impress them with my wit and knowledge, though my dad is tough to amuse and my mom is inately competitive about her smarts. So I'll bring up some tidbit from class (Me: "In government, we're learning about the beaucracy and how, though everyone hates them, they're still totally necessary to get stuff done--" Mom: "Well, you know, I was a judge, but it was mostly administrative. It's from ad-law. That was the hardest class in all of law school, and I got an A.") or I'll tell an amusing anecdote (Me: "So in meeting, Frankie said the funniest thing: [recounts thing]." Mom: [giggles] Dad: [grunts and nods]) and will just come out feeling foolish. I felt the most foolish when I inadvertantly slept through the first half of the French movie. Actually, I felt the most foolish when we ran into my advisor/former chem teacher in St. Mark's books (fabulous store) and I was writing down book names and my dad said "she's never been here before, so we're showing it to her" and my teacher seemed surprised at my un-hippness. Or perhaps I'm paranoid.

Book Log:
Silence of the Lambs, by Thomas Harris
My senior project advisor takes his role very seriously, so much so that he went out and spent 15 bucks to buy me the book and screenplay of what he says Syd Field called one of the greatest book adaptations ever. So I read the book. Once I finish my work tonight, I'll read the screenplay. Then tomorrow, I will go through the book I'm adapting and choose bits to cut out.
Anyway, the book was okay. It was a really easy read, but it was also an absorbing one. I sorta wanna go out and buy the other books on Hannibal Lecter. Maybe after the project. Still don't wanna see the movie though, because Hopkins freaks me out even when he's not in character.

Movie Log:
Masculin, féminin: 15 faits précis by Jean-Luc Godard
I don't usually put a byline on movies, but this is a Godard film rather than just a movie.

So, as it was a pretentious French movie, I figured I'd have "thoughts," so I came into the movie with a notebook. I will here type up and explain my notes. Bear in mind that I was drifting in and out of sleep-land for the first forty-five minutes.

nice tits - sweater - N. Portman My thoughts on the female lead. She didn't wear any other good sweaters while I was awake, and the Natalie Portman resemblence was only fleeting, though.
French writer smoker jacket My thoughts on the male lead. He was writing his socialist manifesto aloud while smoking and wearing a distinctly French jacket.
talking in café. Clichédar went off.
socialist. Well, they were all the "children of Marx and coca-cola," as the famous titlecard goes. See, the 15 Precise Facts of the title are random titlecards that come up and say deep thoughts like "this movie could've been called the children of Marx and coca-cola" or "Dialogue With a Consumer Product" (when the male lead is asserting his superiority over a beauty contest winner by asking her about politics and birth control, and I know that it's not a fact, but if you were New Wave enough you would get it).
Right, so the Male Lead and His Friend were both socialists and went around doing the thing at the beginning of this post and being edgy.
change the shot! That's right, I'm bossing around Godard. The staticness of the shots was a major contribution to my drifting off (in addition to the sedative power of potato pancakes).
scenes go on too long That's scenes, not shots. At one point, Male Lead had about twenty minutes of banter with Female Lead that was all "you said you'd go out with me." "No I didn't." "Why did you lie?" "I don't lie." "You did!" "Only to you." "Which is a lie, saying you will go out with me or the saying you won't?" "Why do you like me?" "You're pretty." "Does going out mean going to bed?" "Let's go to bed." And so on.
lead his sledges Or at least that's what I can make of this particular note. Head his scodes, maybe?
crap subtitles And they really were. They were white, and whenever they went over a white surface you couldn't see shit.
prude There was a really hot girl who was a prude or a lesbian, I couldn't decide. Clearly at one point I decided prude, but my dad's film books said lesbian.
product placement: Tide There was a HUGE box of tide behind Female Lead's Female Lover (different than Prude) at one point. Very distracting. Oh, and by the way? I slept through all the hot lesbian action (showering, touching, three-way with Male Lead...)
teh gay! Male Lead stumbles across two tuxedoed gentlemen making out in a bathroom stall. My dad's book says that this is supposed to clue us into the lesbian subtext between Female Lead, Her Female Lover, and Prude.

And those are my notes. I would make such a bad critic, because my shorthand is retarded. Maybe it'd be better if I had a little light-up pen.

"Kick 'er right in the Coriolanus!"

2005-03-01T20:54:00.000-05:00

So I've been having teh totaly t33n angst this past few days because the ever insidious Friends Chain O' Gossip informed me that my co-gangsters have not been so pleased with my performance thus far, as they are wild and crazy extravagant and I am shy and discreet. (that was a long-ass sentence.)

So far, this week, the three of us have had four rehearsals (in the past two days. During the day and after school yesterday, and two different after school today. They really want us to be good). I have been playing it up to the best of my abilty, but I'm still not nearly as exuberant as they are, even at my biggest.

Their hugeness of presence, I realized, was because of their natural, impulsive need to be the center of attention. I've noticed this urge in all of my friends: that's what you get from being in a theatrical crowd. Everyone's always performing; everyone always needs an audience.

I'm good at tolerating this type, though, because I really don't want an audience. I'm not this type. I mean, of course I want people to listen to me when I have something to say, but I don't crave attention, don't starve for the spotlight, don't need the eyes of the public to surivive from day to day. I'm not at all the actor, the "thespian" (take note, yearbook staff*).

My co-gangsters, among other characterizations of me (insane homeless lady, Victoria Gotti), have often called me a middle-aged woman. "And there goes Laura Shapiro, being all "oooh! I just don't want anyone to get hurt!"" When Frankie and Puck wrestle, I move the chairs out of their way, and make sure nobody bleeds. When Sam Rab rehearses, I turn the pages for Linda. I'm a facilitator, a stage manager, a background organizer.

And that is my excuse for why I am not quite as out there as the boys. It is also something I'd been reflecting on generally. Anyway.

*Yeah, so, the yearbook staff might make my Dream Reality Thespian/Lesbian, which doesn't work because a) mom would freak and b) not a thespian. The other options are funny, but all of them relate to my vaguely obsessive friendship/stalkership with/of Frankie, and that joke can get old fast. Maybe one can be about that. Any further suggestions?

Book Log:
Violet and Claire by Francesca Lia Block
Speaking of that, this is Frankie's book, and so clearly shows so many of her early writing influences that it blew my mind.
Movie Log:
Michael
Gay German Silent Film the second. Weird. Sort of fun, in a "get to teh gay" already sort of way. I have no patience for heterosexual romance in silence.

"It's better than bad: It's good!"

2005-02-24T23:33:00.000-05:00

--from the "Log" theme of Ren and Stimpy

I chose that title cos this post is going to be mostly me logging media, as I so often do. However, let me just metion that I really like getting material things and am currently starting off my new "Congrats on College" iPod by inputting Sondheim and the Magnetic Fields, because I'm a dork.

Theater Log:
Hurlyburly
So Tuesday night around 1 A.M., Frankie IMs me: "Do me a favor: come to see a play with me tomorrow. I have these tickets and no company." So I go, and it's pretty cool. It's this weird talky 80s cocaine-addled account of casting directors and psychopathic actors and stuff in L.A. doing drugs and having sex and talking about the meaning of life. Ethan Hawké was better than expected, Parker Posey was fabulous, and the whole thing was rather interesting.

Book Log:
Brave New World, by Adolous Huxley
I read this all in one sitting on my last day staying with Paul and the boys. I don't think I properly absorbed it, though, because it only vaguely blew my mind. I think I'm desensitized to horrific views of the future.

Movie Log:
Hero
Again, last day at Paul's. It was pretty, but not as consistently as the articles would've had me believe. It was very Rashomon with color themes and ugly Jet Li.

Paul was born a poor black child...

2005-02-20T18:37:00.000-05:00

I hate visiting the houses of family friends. I always feel so out of place, and out of my element, and end up reading for about 50 hours straight.

So, to comfort myself, I am going to begin telling you the story of why we’re here.

A long long time ago—1969—there was a young man from the Bronx with a Jewfro and a clinically insane mother. His name was Paul. There was also a young woman from the Bronx with some pretty crazy relatives of her own, called Robin. The two of them shared a last name, and thus, at the huge magnet school they attended, sat next to each other. They fell in lurve, as happens, and dated through freshman year of college, which they were attending together. You see, one day, Robin was getting Paul’s mail (he was always very dependent on her and she was a willing enabler) and came across a thick envelope from Columbia University. She opened it, and saw “Congratulations! You have been accepted to the Columbia Class of ’76!” She was furious: “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to transfer!?” “Because I need to get away from you and try to live on my own!” “You still could have told me!” Well, he left, and they ended up parting pretty amicably.

Fast forward to the mid-to-late eighties. Paul, by then a pathologist, had married a woman named Stacey, an oncologist. Robin had married a man named Peter. Paul and Stacey have had twins, identical bright-eyed brunet boys they named Corey and Larry. Robin and Peter have had me, and are expecting little Elisa.

Fast forward to the end of the nineties. Paul and Stacey have had Isaac, and have also built themselves a castle. Not quite a literal, Queen-of-England sort of castle, but a 3-million+ dollar palace, complete with turrets, a swimming pool overlooking a gorgeous cliff, and a wine cellar almost the size of Robin and Peter’s apartment. Paul and Stacey could afford this primarily by virtue of Stacey’s income—Paul’s salary is no small change either, but oncology seems to be where it’s at.

Paul decided that he wanted a divorce. Stacey was furious: “What about the boys!?” “Well, the twins are at boarding school and will soon be at college, they’ll be all right. And Zacky will hopefully go to Choate too, so…” Stacey was still furious, and promptly retaliated by making Paul give up all the possessions he had obtained and treasured—his palace, his wines, his lifestyle of the rich. She became very bitter and argumentative and difficult during the divorce proceedings.

Stacey has, since the divorce, married a man she met through her job. His wife was a patient of hers, and eventually died (cancer’ll do that). He then courted Stacey. He was very rich, too—an owner of funeral homes. His name is Mortimer. That’s right, a mortician named Mort.

Paul has, since the divorce, married a woman he met through his job. She works with him at the hospital, and he courted her. She is about ten years his junior, and was rescued via helicopter from the depths of Vietnam during the war. Her name is Nu. Yes, the new woman’s name was “New.” They now live here, in this not-quite-mansion, and are currently cooking me dinner.

That is Paul’s story. His sons, now, seem to be gearing up for an interesting one. Corey and Larry have always been the sweetest, most adult-friendly young men imaginable. They were always good with the kids (we never visit without Paul and Robin’s other childhood friend Gary, his wife Terry, and their kids Ivy and Becca), and sweet with the grown-ups, and did well in school, and let me play pinball with them. They were impossible to tell apart until puberty, which Larry hit first and dealt with more easily. Now Larry is more athletic, with shorter spiky hair, while Corey is chubby and still has the bowl cut they’ve had since birth. The two of them attend George Washington University. Corey’s on-again-off-again girlfriend of 19 months (named, creepily enough, Stacey [Paul and Robin's Last Name]) goes to Brandeis. Stacey II is in lurve with Corey and wants to marry him. Her parents agree, and pay for his plane tickets up from D.C. Corey does not want to marry her, but is too sensitive to make a statement one way or the other. He wants to see other people, but cannot tell her. He is seeing other people anyway, but not in a pleasant way. He will sleep with any girl who asks him to, because he is too afraid to hurt their feelings by saying no. Larry, meanwhile, is a commitment-phobic stud: everybody thinks him cute, but he is against the idea of dating and courtship and just wants to hang out, pretty much. I heard all this from mom, who heard it all from Paul. Paul is still remarkably dependent on Robin, and she has spent the weekend trying to convince him to tell Corey to dump Stacey II. If anything happens, readers, I’ll update you when I get back.

Rocky Log:
Oh, it was adorable. Everybody kept switching parts and misacting and being all nice and cute. Good times.

Book Log:
The Hours, by Michael Cunningham
I couldn’t get into the book I brought, so I decided to pick the first book off the shelf of this study where I’m sleeping to read. The first book I picked was a Freudian textbook, which, although fascinating, was incorrigibly Germanic and unappealing. The second was this. It was not very good, and now I have Phillip Glass’ horrible score from the movie in my head. Grrr. Even all the lesbianism didn’t help, and I'm a sucker for lesbians.

Movie Log:
The Jerk
I was trying to watch the Office, when all of the sudden, my sister, Becca and Ivy barreled in the DVD room. “Eww, what’s this? We wanna watch something else!” Ivy, who is 13 and has discovered that talking about sex makes Gary squirm, requested that we watch either American Pie, There’s Something about Mary, or Secretary. Becca, who is 11 and “edgy,” asked for Harold and Maude. Le asked for Spiderman 2. I decided that all of them were wrong and we would compromise with semi-classic comedy.
It was pretty good. Gary’s girls didn’t really get all the “white people have no rhythm” jokes, and Bernadette Peters was sort of weird, but Steve Martin is just so committed to his comedy that you have to smile.

YES! (tibet)

2005-02-16T21:58:00.000-05:00

--Geographical Fugue, this trippy piece we're doing in chorus.

Remember, oh readers, those many months you endured of college-application whining? Or, new readers, care to look back in the archives? (I recommend all of it, of course, but for some good all-around whining, try June--some college, some Thurman Egomaniac Scott...)

Well, anyway, suffer no longer. Whining time is over. At least about that.

You see, I applied sort of secretly to Early Decision, Part Deux at the college I visited here.

And now I am proud to be in the Wesleyan Class of 2009! Wheee!

There Goes Sickness...

2005-02-14T15:41:00.000-05:00

-A play on the title of a song by the first band I ever saw in concert, Mudhoney.

So, as you may have known, I was rather sick this weekend. Fever of up to 102.5-ish, vomit (unto the subway tracks once, unto my toilet twice), violent back pain, dehydration, headache, mom serving on me hand and foot... as one would expect, really. Sickness sort of blows, particularly because I had to stay in today, and that means I missed rehearsals, which I hate to do.

This post is rather pointless--I just wanted to get this logging in before I forgot.

Oh, and by the way? I would just like to inform you that there is absolutely NO WAY that I made myself feel better by rereading certain passages in this or this and pretending I had an Annie or a Tara with me. Nosireebob. I am not lame like that.

... so how 'bout them Yankees?

Book Log:
Maurice by E.M. Forster
Frankie went on an Amazon.com spree, and I went on a "reading stuff that Frankie bought" spree, and this was pretty cool. Edwardian homosexuals, man, committing the
"unspeakable vice of the Greeks" all night long. Or for a couple years, until they turn straight on ya. Stupid sexy Clive.

Movie Log:
sex, lies, and videotape
I think the lowercase was intentional, because this was _edgy_. James Spader is functionally impotent and gets off on videotapes! Peter Gallagher is a fuckhead who cheats! That chick from Groundhog's Day is annoying and sad! That chick from Just Shoot Me is a slut! And it's all edgy! Spader is so creepy that it's kinda hot, but Sodebergh is too edgy to care, man.

Trekkies
Is it sad that seeing this documentary about obsessive Trek fanatics made me want to become that fanatical about something? Trek is too complicated, but it made me wish I'd bought some of the expensive auctioned shit at RockyCon last summer.

"Just Post Already"

2005-02-09T23:16:00.000-05:00

--What Frankie said when I asked for a title quote.

I have a very large, very hard test in American Government stuff tomorrow. Instead of studying the stuff I need for the test, I am procrastinating by reading about current events in American policy. Can that count, Dave? (I doubt he reads this. Or enjoys being called Dave. But whatever.)

Anyway, here are some good little guides:
Fake Your Way Through a Budget Discussion
Fake Your Way Through a Social Security Conversation

The Social Security bit is really annoying, because in Government, we're learning about how the government mistrusted the people, thinking they would think selfishly, and now the current administration is encouraging selfish, "ownership" thinking, and Alexander Hamilton was like a billion times smarter than George W. Bush and is probably right on this. (F.D.R. was also maybe a million times smarter than Bush is, and he had polio and an excessive libido. [I don't know why I bring that up.].)

Ooh, and I helped create a new blog today--Frankie's mom's new blog proves that everyone and their mother's got one now.

Book Log:
A Confederacy of Dunces
A variety of forces got together to make me read this:
1) it was mentioned in the critically-acclaimed movie Sideways
2) I realized I hadn't read a good novel in, like, forever.
3) I couldn't sleep.

It was a very interesting book. I think I sympathezied with the main character, who was supposed to be overly obtuse and unsympathetic and medieval and really fat, but he was just so interesting. I admired his dedication to the bizarre religious practices of Boethius. It was pretty zany, anyway, and there were some nice clichéd homosexuals of both types at whom I could bristle and squeal.

"I'm going to fuck at least three of those N*SYNC guys before the night is out."

2005-02-05T16:53:00.000-05:00

"And I hear the other two are gay!"
"I don't care. I'd fuck them and their gay boyfriends!"
---Three really spoiled rich Jewish 13-year-old girls on Sex and the City last night.

The middle-school plays went quite well. Those crazy kids are good at heart, and nothing beats feeling important, as I do whenever I stage-manage and have my headphones.

The after-party was interesting. I twisted my ankle while trying to be cool and jump down the last two stairs to the lobby, which may have looked funny, but really wasn't, as my ankle still hurts. The best part came (no offense to everyone else there) when it was just Frankie, Rab, and I, sitting and watching Sex and the City. God, that show is addictive.

Theatre Log:
La Cage Aux Folles
For the past... I guess six years, my mother and I have made it a February tradition to participate in a Broadway touristic promotional event called Kids Night on Broadway. We'd also made it a tradition to wait till the last day of sales to buy the tickets, which is why we've mostly seen flops and long-running crap (excepting last years Little Shop event, wherein we were trying to get all my friends and their parents to join us and ended up with a bunch of kids, my father, and Mr. Ma, which was okay too)/
My point is that this year, the only last-minute ticket available was La Cage. All the songs sounded the same (during the entr'acte, they were playing a song and I said "is that "Ann on my Arm"? and mom listened and said "I think it's "La Cage," actually," and then we realized we were both wrong, somehow). No matter how hard they tried to be tenors, all the men were baritones. They could not hit the higher notes. I cringed a lot, both with them and at the casting director. And, uh, not subversive. Probably was in 1982.
When I told Frankie I was going to see this, she told me two stories, both from PBS' big Broadway special a little while back. Only one is relevant, though. It was from a clip of the Tony Awards. The presenter said "And the nominees are: So and So for Such and Such, So and So for Such and Such, So and So for Such and Such, Stephen Sondheim for Pacific Overtures, and Jerry Herman for La Cage aux Folles. And the winner is... Herman!" and Herman ran up to the stage and barked "I guess this means there's still room on Broadway for catchy, hummable, old-fashioned tunes." A collective cry of "Burn!" went up in the audience, because he was totally dissing on Sondheim. But I just listened to my Pacific Overtures CD, and what were the Tony voters thinking? Maybe Pacific Overtures was boring, but it was far better scored than Three-Note-Herman over there.

Movie Log:
Sex in Chains
From the DVD of series "Gay-Themed Movies of the German Silent Era," but not very gay-themed. It was mostly about how sex drive and mental welfare deteriorated in German prisons. There was some lust-filled man-on-man hand-holding and note-passing, but it was mostly just man-on-woman drifting apart.
It was still a sweet movie, though. And it was very interesting, especially since, you know, 1920s Germany, but the characters were sympathetic and nice.
But the best part was later than night, when Frankie said "You know, you're going to put this on your movie log, and then you're going to get a million google hits for "Sex in Chains" like pornography." And I will.

"I've checked more single-women's boxes than a gynecologist."

2005-01-30T01:39:00.000-05:00

--someone on "Sex and the City" regarding house-buying forms; we (me, Frankie, Elk, and Rab) watched a few episodes of that Friday Eve, as well as watching (re-watching for F and me) Wet Hot American Summer.

So, I went to a halfway-decent bar mitzvah today. It was the first one in... ever, I guess... to which we were on time. The service was mercifully short--none of that "we'll weave the bar mitzvah into the regular Shabbat service so that the guests will have to SUFFER" crap. The young man is a very sweet guy--he had major learning disabilities that he overcame (he lost all ability to speak at age 3--he'd been doing fine till then--and he slowly learned it all back and is now a fine talker). The reception was horrible, of course, because I knew nobody and they were blasting rap, and whenever they played a good song ("Build Me up Buttercup," "Stacy's Mom," "A Little Help from My Friends"--the 13 year olds all said "get by" twice rather than saying "get high," which is cute, considering that at that age, I knew some people who were total potheads like whoa) came on, my sister would pinch me hard to keep me from crooning along.

My mother was no help--she didn't know most of them either, so she was talking to me. She related tales of being dragged to the pot-parties of some of the guests, and how dull they were and how all they could talk about was drugs and how many drugs they were taking and how many they wanted to and shit (c.f.: student center, the). Then, of course, one of them came over, to remind me that they got me tickets to Sesame Street Live (I only vaguely remember it, but mom and dad say that I really loved it and started crying when the plot-device "conflict" came up). I then gathered a crowd as I explained $cientology, which I had just given a speech about on Friday.

So, what did I get out of this? Well, I stole a centerpiece, so I now have various action figures of famous figures. I got Ludwig van Beethoven, Cleopatra, 2 Sigmund Freuds, Moses, a broken Sherlock Holmes, Shakespeare, and an Annie Oakley to inspire me to try harder in musical theatre. I also rediscoverd my love of pigs in blankets and latkes, as do at every bar mitzvah. I may stop rediscovering it soon, though, because I plan to negotiate out of every family friend's after I start college. One more to go before graduation!

Movie Log:
Napoleon Dynamite
Why don't I get it?
People really liked this movie. People do not stop quoting it. People want to be Mr. D. Yet I was violently underwhelmed.

So I took some notes, and will now use them.
The best thing was probably the production design. It looked like a boring, weird suburb. Spot on, kid.
I also liked the riony of the words "I want to be forever young" being played over a high-school dance, because high school SUCKS, man! It's DEEP!
There was one good sight gag: a wannabe karate-guru wearing a pair of American-flag pants.

The weirdest things were the racial jokes. Besides a few jokes about the best-friend's Mexican-ness (his cousins are in a gang, he says "yes" with a j, we get it), there was this bizarre subplot about Napoleon’s brother Kip's online girlfriend. It starts off with us knowing her only through this poem: "Your sandy hair / floats in the air... / To me it's like a lullaby... / I'm just flying by... / Oh so high... / like a kite... / tied to a skate..."
But slowly, it is revealed that she is named LaFawnda, and is all African-American. (when she comes to town, the dorkish chap begins to wear bling[-bling] and a doo-rag.) And it's just odd. It made me tense up and get all icked out inside.

There was also some sort of weird comment about meat going on, because there was a scene where an old guy shoots a cow, and then a scene later the Dynamites are seen eating steak. And Napoleon works in a chicken-farm for a day and it's gross. And there's a llama.

That's the thing, I think--it was way too wacky. A llama? The-girl-who-could've-been-me selling lanyards for college (funniest line in the movie was when she said that and geeky online boy shouts from off-screen "your mom went to college!" The best part is that it freaks her OUT)? A segment with a time machine? Come ON.

Speaking of the-girl-who-could've-been-me... let me tell you why the gal who played "Deb" could've been me. When I was about seven, some Hollywood types came to my elementary school looking for girls who looked a certain way, and I was the girl they picked. So mom and I had a really long conversation about whether or not I wanted to go to Hollywood and be an actress, and I decided that I'd prefer to stay in Manhattan because I liked it. Mom wanted me to be in the movie, because it'd be cool, but I insisted on staying. Tina Majorino got the role, so my mom has been tracking her career and repeatedly telling me how much prettier I am than her ever since.

* - Like seeing Chris Lipinski

2005-01-26T23:32:00.000-05:00

There was a panel on "teh gay" today at schoool. It consisted of my awesome new history teacher, my sister's history teacher, Wilma Wetblanket, the head of the Log Cabin Republicans, and a hilarious guy who was this total jock who was also a total faggot. Ah, the dichotomy.

It was an interesting enough panel, with some fun points and the use of man-lover rather than "partner."

But when I was listening to them talk about being out in high school, I carefully looked around the room and realized that I was the outest kid there. And that was odd, because it meant it was possible that people were thinking about me, which freaks me out.* Puck and Moonshine had significantly skipped, but I would've loved to see their reactions.

In other news, this photo-essay about Gay Spongebob joining a church because the church is trying to emphasize tolerance is sweet. And this story about a gay person in rural Pennsylvania is sweet.

And finally, this ostensibly (but very doubtably) real Oedipus essay freaks me out*, because it contains

Riding in the benzo, poppin my colla
See some fine wenches, I hafta holla
Diamonds, gold, and the all mighty dolla
Im opedipus bitch, the original balla
I buts out my 9, to lighten up your impala
Fuck that police!

Generic Blogpost

2005-01-25T23:29:00.000-05:00

Oscar nominations are up!
No really big surprises. Catalina Sandino Moreno is this year's Keisha Castle-Hughes, but the main function of Best Actress is 1999 2.0: Reee-match! (Personally, I'm for Winslet, cos she's pretty. And this is her fourth nomination and she's only 29, for crissakes.)

Caleb Deschanel will win for Cinematography, and maybe while there he can put in a good word for Zooey and she'll get some roles in something worth watching for once.

Ooh, I guess Clint's double-nomination is a little odd. I sort of hate him, because my mom told me the end of Million Dollar Baby and it freaked me out and gave me a nightmare.

Some interesting news on the Republican front. Apparently, either Bush has to rescind his recent pledge to give up on the Federal Marriage Amendment or not get his Social Security passed. I really hate James Dobson. He's blackmailing! That's not Christian! You make baby Jesus cry. (Mel Gibson makes grown-up Jesus cry, and now he's crying too, because he wasn't nominated, just Deschanel and his makeup artist.) (Wow, that was tortured.)

Movie Log:
Edward Scissorhands
(I have such trouble with the word "scissor"; I always wanna use "z" rather than "s.")
Anyway, it's a sweet, sad little movie. Tim Burton makes things stylized-pretty.

Social Anxiety, or I Thought I Got Over This Shit , or Change

2005-01-20T22:07:00.000-05:00

Jealousy is a really horrible feeling. I know that original, edgy, and controversial statement has wowed you all, but there's a reason I bring it up: I've been feeling it.

See, I had a really hard time making the friends I had. I spent hours wondering "where is everyone during my free periods?" I spent days daydreaming about the magical day when people would realize how cool I was and begin, on _their_ initiative, to be my friend. When I finally got these few, I was thrilled! I didn't need anybody else, but when new folk began to hang around our crowd, I was cool, so long as everyone was equally hanged out with. (There is no way to make that sentence grammatically correct, is there?)

But then came Puck and Moonshine. They're wonderfully funny, but Puck at least is horribly manipulative. Besides trying to convince Frankie that Moonshine hates her, in the past few days he's spat in my hair and talked about my sister behind her back and called me ugly behind my back, or what he thought was behind my back, because I was watching Frankie's IMs but Frankie hadn't alerted him to that fact so he was just insulting me and if he said it behind my back he wasn't just joshing he was totally serious and OMGWTFBBQ!!!!!1!@ONE!

And then, suddenly, a lovely young sophmore with the most wonderful full name of all time, which I cannot think about without trying to say aloud, but probably shouldn't type in case she's a Googler, IMed Frankie. (I'm just running on and on and on...) And then I remembered that another lovely young sophmore recently went out to tea with LK. And then I remembered that NOBODY LIKES ME EVERYBODY HATES ME I GUESS I SHOULD JUST EAT WORMS.

So that's the jealousy. It's also related to my raging unrequited asexual maternal crush on a freshman boy from chorus. I don't suppose any of y'all have had a raging unrequited asexual maternal crush on a person outside of your sexuality four years your younger, but it's weird. Because, see, its asexual and maternal, so I don't want his sex pootie or anything, but I feel obligated to make jokes regarding it, and I can't have a proper conversation with him because I'm a horrible conversationalist and he's a frosh, and when a senior talks to a freshman it's inherently condescening, especially if your two social personalities are "shy chick hidden in a book" or "loud obnoxious butch chick who doesn't make much sense" and you always somehow chose the latter when trying not to condescend to the poor boy.

I know I'm a horrible conversationalist, by the way, because of an awkward experience I had over winter break. Between college apps, somehow, I got roped into meeting this German chick with a rare disease who lived in France that Kushner had practically forced me to correspond with because we were the only two lesbians he knew and were thus perfect for each other. She was nice, I guess, but I wasn't really that keen on meeting someone I had only been introduced to by virtue of our sexuality, so I spent the entire meeting (which also included Mr. Kush and his gal pal) ranting to Kush and Pal about video games and movies and pop culture about which the European invalid would never be aware, in my loudest and most obnoxious voice. And she gave me a hand knitted scarf that I'm afraid to wear because it's itchy and I don't want to make a statement.

So... a needle pulling thread?

"Obstructing the wheels of Justice, Daddy?"

2005-01-17T22:54:00.000-05:00

--Patricia Hitchcock as a Senator's daughter in Strangers on a Train.

So, right now you're going to hear a little rant. In a roundabout fashion.

I was sitting on my couch, watching Jeopardy! (which I watch compulsively and like to pretend I'm good at), when suddenly mom remembered "Oh, you have to call back Anna!" who called while I was watching the Golden Globes and miserably failing in any psychic power I might have had. Or something. So I called her back, and was immediately ordered to bundle up and go see her and Kate, with whom I'd been friends since the 4th grade or whatever and whom I had not seen since... well, before July, because Kate hadn't seen my haircut. So we were chillin' like multiple villian's, and then it was time to go home, and Kate was all complaining about the cold and "why did I apply to school in Canaaadaaa???" to which I replied "you could get out of the draft." And she was like "Oh, yeah. You know, I was gonna cut off my pinky toe." And I blanched, because unlike Ms. Seven-Facial-Piercings (that'd be her), I don't go in for self-mutilation, and subsequently mentioned "Or you could just tell. You know, come out. Don't ask don't tell."

I thought I was all clever and had outwitted the system, but I got home and visited my roundup of websites including This Is Not Over, (a.k.a. that quasi-activist blog). There, I found an entry entitled "Finding Terrorists is Less Important than Finding Gays." That entry linked to this.

Now, I never got around to purchasing and reading the 9/11 Comission Report, but I've read quite a lot about it, and it definitely said that one reason we didn't intercept the hijackers is because our translation services were backed up. And yet, somehow, it's okay to back up our services further by firing homosexuals. I suppose Don't Ask Don't Tell is better than nothing, but it's not really helping now, is it?

Book Log:
Dave Barry in Cyberspace
Dave Barry Talks Back
Funny guy, that. He's gone now from columns.

I actually read an interesting article about how smart he is and how he should take over for William Safire on the New York Times Op-Ed page. I then read an article suggesting that he take his Mr. Language Person articles and take over for Safire in the Times Magazine, too.

Rocky Log:
Rocky was overshadowed by the harsh reality of Sandy's injury. Also, I was sitting next to a smelly guy who refused to participate or seem remotely amused. But it was still a fun time.

Movie Log:
Lost in Yonkers
Neil Simon sure is funny. Richard Dreyfuss was the really funny one, actually. And one of the two little kids narrating is dead
Strangers on a Train
Alfred, you wacky crazy man you. This was funny and weird and homoerotic and had the Coolest. Sequence. Ever. in which an old carnie crawled under a merry-go-round going about 40 miles per hour. It wasn't faked, even! How freakin' cool!
Candide
Fun stuff. Went SOOO HIGH. Makes me want to sing high.

"It doesn't matter what I do as long as I don't care about the results. And that's why now, I'm getting naked."

2005-01-12T00:08:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: I am writing this fully clothed. Sorry, folks.

In the past few days, I have had many a conversation about My Future. First, I somehow got involved in talking to Dennis-of-set-design about what arena in the theatre I'd prefer, both in this special project the advanced acting-types are doing and in general. He's the one who planted the notion in my brain that I'd be a fabulous producer, and now he's all "you should write or direct!" Thanks for the mexed missages, Eisenberg.

Then, on Monday, Eric Bogosian-of-Harry-(and-Eduardo) came to talk to the Advanced Acting class, and I asked him an innocent question about writing for the theatre, and he was all "If I didn't feel I had to write to get a part I liked, I wouldn't. I'd rather act." Also, he told probably-not-as-funny-at-the-time tales about His Life as an Alcoholic Starving Artist. His success, he said, was very much luck; he was looking for full-time non-theatrical jobs, when BAM he got discovered doing one of his "solos."

Today was "career night." It was okay, I guess--a little lame, but I suppose Liev Schriber was busy being awesome and Amanda Peet was busy celebrating her birthday (or so sayeth IMDb) and those are our famous alums. However, I spoke for a while with this "writer/playwright/actress" who graduated from Friends the year my mother was born. She reiterated Mr. Bogosian's poin about writing--she'd rather be on the stage, but writing's important too. She had other helpful tidbits, like "well, if you really must do theatre, you should get in via technical stuff like you were saying you did, because New York always needs stage managers. But, if it's all the same to you, you oughta go into film or TV, because those actually pay money."

And then, tonight, I pulled out my long-neglected Little Shop of Horrors CD. I wanted to see if a certain song was in my range and was interesting enough to use as an audtion piece. It was in my range, but I could do so much more with another of which song I've been thinking (I sound so much like an actor x-core, bay-bee). So, instead, I decided to just listen to it all the way through. So I was "doing my homework," but mostly singing along. You know, "Down on skid ROOOOOOOOOO--ooOOOW" and "Sudddeeeenly SEEEEMoRRRR" and tra la la. Not thinking about the plot. When suddenly, album track 19 began, and the girl, for whom the lead has made all his sacrifices and committed murders and stuff, is eaten by the evil plant. I broke down. Then there was the dying reprise of her love ballad to the suburbs and I had to turn it off and run to my mommy.

"Mommy!" I said, scrunching up my face. "I was listening and then Audrey II ate Audrey-real and Seymour did everything for her even killed his father and Oedipus and waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

And it was then I decided that I don't care which field I go into so long as something that I work on makes kids both sing along mindlessly and cry tears of anguish. At the same time, preferably.

Movie Log:
SubUrbia
I may go unprepared for most classes, but let it never be said I go unprepared for famous folk in acting class.
It was a very interesting movie. Depressing and funny and weird and pretentious. And starring a Scientologist. But also starring Parker Posey. Worth seeing, even though it didn't help me at all in our discussion with Monsiuer Bogo-san.

Chillax, y'all

2005-01-09T20:15:00.000-05:00

One of my college essays was about my own personal manner of speaking. Each section was under a heading based on a phrase I may actually say or have said. Under the heading Chillax, y'all, I said

My slang, certainly, is designed not to conform. Why else would a life-long New Yorker use the markedly Southern pronoun “y’all?” Why else would a sheltered white girl greet her “homies” with a proud “wassup, yo?” Why else would a civilian use Hacker (or, as they prefer, “h@x0r”) “leet” speak (from “31337”, which allegedly spells “elite”), even ironically? Why else would anyone in this century call something “groovy?”

Also, on the very last day before winter vacation, the chorus (including me, Frankie, Miss Ma and Sam Rab) the voice classes, and Elk went a-carrolling. One of my goals was that I was to embarass my sister as much as possible on the journey, so when we arrived in her classroom, I made sure to make a tremendous ruckus. "Okay, y'all, we're gonna sing the Psalite--that's the song with the bells! Did you hear me? Bell song, y'all!" She and my mother have not stopped shouting that--"Bell song, y'all,"--at me since.

And finally, apparently you can tell a Texan by to whom he refers as "y'all."

On a less y'allian note, I am having such difficulty with my big bad procrastinatin' self. I've reread all the TWoPular Popular recaps, I've sighed over fabulous essays about female friendship and fandom, I've generally fucked around... And all I have to show for it is the interesting factoid that the amount of heat energy released by the earthquake that caused the big ole' tsunami is enough to boil 40 gallons of water for every single person on earth. Not including, I'd assume, the 150000 who died in the tsunami.

Book Log:
Weetzie Bat, by Francisca Lia Block
Bizarre magical gay fantasy wheeeee!

"They're totally irrational and crazy and absurd and, but, uh, I guess we keep going through it because most of us need the eggs."

2005-01-05T22:09:00.000-05:00

Yes, that's right, my quote on my entry about relationships is from Woody Allen. I'm just that wacky and Elektra-n and New York.

Right. So, relationships. I like the idea of being in a couple quite a lot, actually. I’ve never been in one, really, but my image of a good coupling is where I have a relationship with that one person that’s different than those I have with everyone else. I’d interact differently with her. I’d understand her more deeply that I would anyone else (and vice versa). We’d have our own, like, plane of comprehension. And sex wouldn’t even have to come into it. I’m more interested right now in connecting on a mental wavelength. The body’s a whole ‘nother arena, and I hate my body and don’t necessarily want to share it. (Who am I kidding? I’d never turn down an offer).

This is, I suppose, my idea of being in love. Loving someone, to me, is wanting to know everything about them—wanting to be able to have their brain as a part of mine, in a way (and vice versa). And, you know, I don’t really have much personal experience in the matter, but I wouldn’t have to necessarily admire or agree with everything I see in that person. So long as I was aware of it. (The one thing we’d really have to agree on would be the definition of love.)

It's sort of like what my parents have, actually. They always understand exactly what the other one is talking about. They have a language of their own. But, hey, they didn't meet till they were 28. (See, that's my Oedipal complex. I want a relationship just like that of my parents. Rather than killing my mother, Ima gonna emulate her. Except that the figure standing in for my father will be a chick.)

So I was just talking about this to the fabulous Elk, and she said “LRKilberg: wow. laura. you are going to be the best girlfriend in the history of the world” (and hee, she could be referring to herself, because her name is also Laura. Gosh, I’m witty). Anyway, though I say that my ideas do not necessarily reflect those of every woman I’ll ever date, I like to think that overanalyzing this shit will make me a top-rate luvah.

Three Brief Late New Year's Resolutions:

2005-01-04T01:27:00.000-05:00

1) Get Publicity on the Internet for Something Other Than Reviewing Bad Pornography

2) Lose Weight so That I Do Not Get Violently Ill

3) Have a Relaxed Second Semester That Leads Effortlessly Into an Awesome College Experience

Happy New Year!

2004-12-31T19:58:00.000-05:00

To all my readers, old-school and newish, loyal and infrequent: have a fantastic Two-Thousanth and Fifth Year of Our Lord.

Now, for the good stuff: Frankie and I have spent the past while watching some end-of-year movies!

Movie Log:
Tipping The Velvet
The BBC miniseries--the DVD was her lovely Channukah-or-whatever gift to me. Most everyone was uglier than I'd imagined, except for the one at the end who was supposed to be ugly but wasn't, and I didn't have the same hopes for the ending.

Total Eclipse
A _very_ young-looking Leo DiCaprio and a _very_ creepy looking David Thewlis (a.k.a. Lupin) play the tortured poets Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine. Leo plays a good CRAZY genius, but I was kinda bored.

Latter Days
One of Frankie's worst of 2004--this I had to see. It was lame all right, but I had a good laugh at its expense.

Sideways
It was cute and funny and Thomas Haden Church deserves awards and Paul Giamatti is the perfect guy to play an irriating wannabe intellectual. But unlike many critics, I do not think that it's the best movie of the year. (I can't believe, by the way, that Stephen Fucking Holden, the worst critic at the paper, was the only one to give Bad Education its due on his end-of-year list.

"That is the kind of college I wish to attend." "That is my type of college." "I wanted to matriculate right then and there."

2004-12-30T01:33:00.000-05:00

As of yesterday evening, I have applied to all the undergraduate learning instituions I ever hope to have to apply to. That's a lot of "to"s.

So, right. I've applied to nine colleges. One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine fucking colleges. I guess three of 'em prefered to be called Universities.

I desperately want to be able to show off my essay work. I've been planning these essays since this June, when my mother and I went to websites of 15 schools that I might apply to and compiled a chart of what essays they needed. I've spent the past few weeks compulsively writing and tearing my hair out. Some of them are inspired exercizes in bullshittery (Why Barnard). Some of them are just inspired (Letter to a Policy-maker; I wrote such a fabulous letter to the Colorado Senator who sponsored the Federal Marriage Amendment that I may request that my Colorado aunt send it to him as a consitituent. It's not even raving about the unfairness of criminalizing gay marriage, either; it's a lesson in Constitutional history. I'm awesome). Anyway, I can't post them here. Mom said, and I sincerely doubt anyone's actually interested. I've summed up at least one of the essays from each college in the title quotes, anyway (why do you want to attend Generic University; how would the College of Non-Specificness satisfy your academic and personal goals; et nauseum).

In other news... I fear greatly I'm becoming lactose intolerant. My father is violently so, as is my maternal grandpa, and I was as a baby, so I'd always assumed it would happen eventually. And for the past week, whenever I have icèd cream or a frappucino (my sole two sources of dairy--have I ever blogged my eating hang-ups? would anyone care to hear about them?), I've gotten sick to my stomach, and have had to calm it down by holding the cat down to it and eating some Cheerios.

Also, I distinctly have not been watching a marathon of Sabrina the Teenage Witch on TV. Get that thought out of your head, missy. Or laddy. (That's laddy as in "young lad," not a typo of "lady.")

Oh, and finally, on the big events of the past while. A bunch of TWoP-type writers have banded together to form a quasi-activist blog, which has linked to a place that lists all sorts of organizations that trying to help in tsunami-afflicted areas to which we homebodies can donate. I am sorry Jerry Orbach is dead, because Lumiere was my idol at age five. I am sorry Susan Sontag is dead, because she was smart and aware and helped changed the face of intellectualism and glavin, but also, what a bitch it must be to die three freakin' days after the New York Times Magazine published its (insufferable) The Lives They Lived issue (the profile of Marlon Brando: "the first time I saw him, I creamed my pants. I just did again, thinking about it").

Book Log:
The wonders of the used bookstores affiliated with Amazon.com brought me yet another gay parody book--Nancy Clue and the Hardly Boys in a Ghost in the Closet. I was disapointed at Ms. Maney a bit--I thought her better than to name a gay man "Nelly."
Movie Log:
John Irving is one of my favorite authors. I credit his book A Widow for One Year, in part, for getting me into high school (I mentioned it as my favorite book in my interview for Friends; the polio-ridden admissions officer was amazed, as she had just read it and simply adored it). As such, I had assumed I would see the movie adaptation of the first third, The Door in the Floor, on opening weekend, but when the time rolled around I was underwhelmed, or possibly busy, and didn't. Well, mom and dad and I rented it last night (my sister is spending a few days chillin' with my 5-and-2-respectively cousins up in Westchester), and was violently underwhelemed. I disagree with the decision of not showing the entire book--the first third had always been my least favorite part, as the Mary-Sue-esque main character was but a child in it--and they had updated it from the 1950s to the 20-nows, which changes the entire mood of it. Also, whenever they changed something, I found that my myriad rereadings of the novel allowed me to quote the exact line of what they had changed, which disturbed me.

Let me eat cake. No, seriously.

2004-12-26T16:47:00.000-05:00

I have done nothing in the past few days except write college essays, play The Sims 2, and watch movies. And sleep, and eat, and breathe, of course, but that's rather needless to say.

I have also had the smell of chocolate cake stuck in my nose for the past 48 hours, and it's driving me batty. The imaginary cake is fluffy and spongy in the cake-y part, and mind-blowingly rich on the icing... I could Homer-Simpson-drool just thinking about it, if I were physically capable of making that noise.

Book Log:
Kiss the Girls and Make them Spy: A Jane Bond Parody, by Mabel Maney
James Bond's lesbian sister! How wacky and clever and subversive!
God, I'm easy.
Movie Log:
Frenzy
Okay, I lied. I went to Frankie's house for a good four hours the other day, and we watched a movie with rape and murder and Alfred Hitchcock.
Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios
Or Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, if you're gonna be all American about it. Pedro Almodóvar sure is wacky and 80s, though. Oh, and it had the weirdest looking lady _ever_ in it.
The Life Acquatic with Steve Zissou
Sure was a movie. It was funny at parts--it was the first time I'd heard my dad laugh out loud in a theatre for _ages_--but it left me sort of blank and uninterested.

Theatre Log:

2004-12-20T23:58:00.000-05:00

Actually, a brief new obsessive-compulsive-tracking feature, Rocky Log:
We went. #22. It was me, Frankie, Frankie's boyfriend, the Frankie's boyfriends' cousin, and the Frankie's boyfriend's cousin's friend. The cousin and her friend were cool; everyone seemed to enjoy it; I wish my 'big sister' and my 'father' (who are engaged, but refer to me in those rather distinct ways) were there, but everyone else is cool too.

Now, for that Theatre Log:

The Franks already told y'all about West Side Story at LaGuardia. I would just like to fume for a while about the stage. Oh, that wonderfully large stage. I loyally spent a bit thinking about how much more creative our set designer would have been, but then I just reveled in the professionality. The actors/singers/dancers were okay, too. Very impressive, considering that their Maria was my fuckin' sister's age and all that.

Then, today, I attended 42nd Street with my family, because the guy who is the head electrician at that theatre has a daughter who is on the softball team that my dad coaches and my sister stars on. The show was horriiiiible. I mean, the production was fine. It was pretty and glimmery and they had a mirror to show off all the cool Busby-Berkeley-bits. But god, that script sucks. I was very pleased with myself for figuring out my two big problems with it (rather than "I didn't like it; meh.): pacing and random characters.

My problem with the pacing is that the first act was sort of a whirlwind, on crack sort of "plot what plot let's tap dance!" You know, wild opening number, small town girl gets a part because she tap dances in sorrow, suddenly she annoys the star who had a secret boyfriend, the director is yelling at the writers for no reason...

The random characters bit was really all about one guy: at the begining, they introduced a ladies man who was to be the star of the musical-within-the-musical. His personality trait was "tenor," and there were lots of tenor jokes (including an obsolete one about tighty-whities). You'd expect him to end up with the girl from the sticks who hits it big, but no. He just sort of sits around and sings tenor and tap dances and doesn't need to exist.

However, if I could just spent a week or two in rewrites, it could be a damn good show. The only reason I'd care, however, is that I found showcases for Frankie and Sam: Frankie, of course, would be the throaty, diva-esque original star of the play within the play; Sam would be the loud, romantic-at-heart, expert, commandeering director, who was played by David Cassidy's big brother. I could see Rie as the small-town-girl, and I'll be the tenor, if I don't totally fuckin' excise him because he's pointless.

Oh, also work noting, on the theatrical front: because of the minimalistic snow, I had the line from Rent "and it's beginning to and it's beginning to and it's beginning to...." deeddle deelde "Joanne, which way to the stage." "snooooooooooooooooow" stuck in my head all day, and because of the Idina Menzel, I decided that I oughta see Wicked. Also, I really want to see Joey McIntire, because New Kids on the Block are inherently funny.

I wish DDR had "Material Girl" rather than "Like A Virgin." Even though I'm both.

2004-12-18T17:55:00.000-05:00

It seems like nobody's blogging these days. Not that I have much to say, but...

Now, I am a listmaking sort, as you may have noticed from all my "Movie Log" and "Book Log" business. I'm also a greedy, materialistic sort, as you may have noticed from... my existence. Therefore, I'm going to start the list of "Material Goods I Received For the Holidays." This first installment will just be familial, because my friends haven't all gotten their shit together (or gotten their shit shipped).

From the Folks:
1 Trogdor Shirt
1 Duck Shirt
1 "America is Scary" Shirt
1 shirt with a picture of a cat that looks remarkably like ours on it.
1 mug with that self-same cat on it
1 Linguistics Textbook
1 Book about Writing
1 Book about Dialect
1 really awesome video game / exercize inspirer

From the Rest
A whole lotta Cash-money (Maternal Granparents, Maternal Aunt, Paternal Aunt #1)
1 Charm Bracelet with "Peace" on it (Paternal Aunt #2)
1 Mini-series on DVD (Parternal Grandmother)

Movie Log:
An Ideal Husband was perfectly Wildean and pretty and fun. I love Victorian high-class.
Shaun of the Dead was oh-so-goofy, but rather predictable. There was this one really touching moment with his mother that made me cry, but I cry at rap videos.

I'd promised myself I'd blog on not a sunday

2004-12-16T23:36:00.000-05:00

I've gone to middle-school rehearsal to assistant direct for the past few days (well, yesterday was more a beatdown than a rehearsal. I like the line about me. I'm turning into my grandmother). It's a comforting ritual, and I noticed some fun things about different people's AD-styles. Frankie is like a real director--she baits everyone with compliments, then sweetly points out a suggestion or two. I'm a stage manager--I obsess over minutae (specific lines, stage directions, plot logic, set pieces...). Tracy is clearly an actress--all her suggestions were based on a (very solid) gut "actress intsinct"; she told them what _she_ would have done if she were to play them. The other ADs tend to be quieter (OTP was not there; they're _never_ quiet. Also, their style is "you're all fat and ugly. Let's do a sketch.")

Then, after rehearsal, I proved to myself that, despite the fact that the uber-geeky college of my choice decided that I had to wait till fucking April to actually hear whether or not they like me, I can still be geekier-than-thou. I spent a geeky evening with Frankie: discussing the rules of the editorial board of the NY Times; analyzing the social strategems of high school girls; tracing the etemology of "harrowing"; criticizing rap lingo; and reading aloud to each other, in our most grandiloquent and homoerotic voices, from that most pretentious of suffering writer/artistes, Franz Kafka*.

Book Log:
The Bonesetter's Daughter, by Amy Tan

Nothing special. Some random throw-away lines about linguistics, because she has master's degree. A well-told story. I'm just a little bored by epic, interwoven stories that span generations of a family and explain everybody's destiny thanks to the wisdom of the old world.

*Kafta's theory of the world: human conciousness = suffering; my dad hates meeeee!!!

Draft Resolution 1.1

2004-12-12T10:10:00.000-05:00

The writers of this blog,

Affirming that they are really bad at public speaking,
Recalling that they haven't the attention span for a 40-hour conference,
Noting with zest that the elegate from the United States may be an ambitious bimbo, but she's a really hot one,
Having examined her breasts,
Guided by innocent seeming girls from Chapin (I shoulda known) until they decided to ditch on the conference and leave me--I mean "them"--to write an amendment all by theirselves,
Taking into account that one of those Chapin-chicks had met Mop Girl
Contemplating their lies to the teacher about the quantity of work they did,
Alarmed by the grostesqueness of the chicken tenders in the food court,

1) Proclaims Harvard Model United Nations (HMUN) to be:
a) boring, as beauracracy and diplomacy can kiss their buttox;
b) interesting, as debate and the sharing of ideas can kiss their lips-ox;
c) tiring, as it is hard to wake up when you've been kept up by VH1 and Tracy+C.J. on the telephone till like 3 a.m.;
2) Strongly Condemns geeky little pricks, such as:
a) the delegate from China, who looked the part of a countercultural icon but acted the part of a nerdy-ruleswhore;
b) the delegate from Canada, who was actually more pathetic than annoying;
c) the delegate from Qatar, because Horace Mann;
3) Emphasizes that most not-slackery HMUN boys are gay, including:
a) the delegate from the Republic of Korea, who looks 20, is 15, and wore a purple boa on the last day;
b) the delegate from the United Kingdom, who was an ambitious power-bottom like whoa;
c) the delegate from Tunisia, who was a cute pre-pubes like this couple;
4) Solemnly Affirms that the rest of the conference wwas more slackery than even me--"them";
5) Notes that they seem rather stoned when they are not on their medication, and Requests that people stop pointing it out and requesting they take their Ritalin;
6) Regrets calling Domino's at midnight thirty to get crappy pizza and "sweet frostedededed cinamonnnnnyy gooddness"
7) Draws attention to the fact that a girl from Ho-Mann in another committee mentioned that Mop Girl loves the attention, but that her parents will not allow her to wear anything on her legs other than pants because she is a slut;
8) Designates their parents, as well as Friends Seminary and other Non-Governmental Organizations, to fund the entire thing.

Movie Log:
Ocean's Twelve
... what is there to say? there was a gag about how Julia Roberts' character looks like Julia Roberts. There was Vincent Cassel, bein' all evil and French. There was CZJ, being all "I'm a cop! Unhhh!"

I had a sip of wine...

2004-12-05T01:53:00.000-05:00

A sip, I tell you. Maybe less than a sip. Just enough for it to touch my tongue and for me to start coughing and grabbing a crust of bread to eliminate the taste. And yet I spent the morning dry-mouthed and headached and generally hungover-esque.

I went shopping for Model U.N. today with my mother. She insisted that a designer retail store was the way to go, because it's way-discounted designer clothes and my mother likes to live through me like that, because I couldn't care less about designer clothes. Anyway, she found a 3-piece set of an Isaac Mizrahi pinstriped suit (a blazer, pants, and a skirt which I refuse to wear on Lesbian principle) that cost only 60 bucks. The lady up front said it retailed for, like, 400 or something, so I suppose that's amazing.

But it's just a little pinstriped suit. Nothing spectacular. Why on earth would anyone deem that worth 400 bucks in the first place? Market forces are really retarded sometimes.

Take this Massive Multi-Player Online Role Playing Game that I'm always on about. Mostly it's just silly adventures and jokes and quests, but once you've completed all of those, then it's pretty much just a capitalist economy game. People go out and farm for products that are in demand, and then sell them for absurdly inflated prices. There are market crashes and inflation and artificial price-setting (sometimes people buy up all the availble units of an item and then set the price reallllly high, which only lasts until the fruits of the next day's farming comes through).

But sometimes market forces are actually driven by need rather than falsely bloated consumers. Take the oil crisis (please) (no, seriously, I don't want it anymore. I don't even drive and yet I feel monsterously guilty about this.). We're running out, and yet fuckin' America (fuck yeah) hasn't ratified emissions treaties and Kyoto protocols and shit. It makes me mad. I want to key every S.U.V. and/or Hummer I see.

By the way, that link is from the most depressing and fascinating website ever, Exti Mundi. It's basically a detailed, purient, narrative, terrifiying collection of end-of-the-world scenarios. Some are religious, like this one about how Zarathustra is going to have some elaborate plot over a couple thousand years involving the expulsion of foreign devils from Iran. Some are creepy, like this one where the world just randomly changes 'cos of quarks, or this one that's pretty much just that The Matrix is, like, real. There are scenarios based on the predicitons of the ancient Mayans, the proliferation of nanotechnologies. There's overabundance of wheat, underabundance of sperm,

There's my favorite, where we all just go insane, as a race.

Hyr is... the kinda gal that drives a fella bats... et cetera

2004-11-28T01:29:00.000-05:00

If my Rocky Horror goings were like years, this one would allow me to drink. Yep, the big 2-1. Alternated between eye-candy-looking-at and rubbing affectionately against my dearest collegiate-type friend, who is here to give thanks. And to watch the greatest rock 'n' roll musical of all time.

I would give you more intelligent blog-posty stuff, but I know that in the state I'm in I'd end up linking you to horribly soppy fanfiction (whoops, my link key slipped. Thrice). And, of course, complaining about how ronery I am.

So, how bout those professional atheltics? They sure aren't romantic at all. I sure am thinking about those right now.

Actually, I was playing an awesome video game in which you create a skateboarder who tries to become a pro but keeps getting thwarted by his/her (sorry, "hyr,"--more on that in a sec) evil "best friend," who, if he isn't getting arrested, is leaving you for dead in snowy Russia. Anyway, I created a beautiful young lady with a purple dyke haircut and a halter top, and a large tattoo of a dragon on her back, which appeared to be trying to eat her ass.

So: "hyr." See, I was showing Ms. Hickey over here some of them horrible fics, and she actually reads them, unlike me, and noticed what appeared to be a typo. See, the writer (or should I say the fantasizer? or the masturbater?) was describing the clitoris, and said "and the blonde pressed on hyr and a surge ran through the brunette..." and Frankie pointed this out and snarked "what's that, some new politically correct term for 'her'?" I giggled for a few minutes, and while I was giggling, she did some research and found out that OMGWTFBBQ, it was a real politically correct phrase. God, I hate lesbians.

Ooh, especially these chicks. Since none of you like to click on links, I'll explain. That link is to "The We'Moon Web." What is We'Moon? Well, We'Moon means "We of the Moon." See, the moon's cycles... ah, fuck it, I'm just gonna quote.

The Moon, whose cycles run in our blood is the original womyn's calendar. Like the moon, we'moon circle the Earth. We are drawn to one another. We come in different shapes, colors, and sizes. We are continually transforming. With all our different hues and points of view we are one.

Hee. As one fametracker put it, "Are we talking about my period here? Because I have no problem with my period, it's fine, it's cool, but I'm not about to bow down and worship at the altar of my bloodstains, either." However:

We'moon [also] means "women." Instead of defining ourselves in relation to men (woman means "wife of man" in Old English; female is a derivative of "male"), we use the word we'moon to define ourselves by our primary relation to the natural sources of cosmic flow ("we of the moon"). Other terms we'moon use are womyn, wimmin, womon, womb-one. We'Moon is a moon calendar for we'moon. As we'moon, we seek to be whole in ourselves, rather than dividing ourselves in half and hoping that some "other half" will complete the picture. We see the whole range of life's potential embodied by we'moon, and do not divide the universe into sex-role stereotypes according to the heterosexual model. Instead, We'Moon is a sacred space in which to explore and celebrate the diversity of she-ness on earth. The calendar is we'moons' space. We see the goddess equally in the sun and the moon, in the earth and the sky. [emphasis added]

Damn the man! And, uh, the men! Anyway, they go on. Other highlights are when they use the phrase "moonifest" (instead of "manifest," because men suck), when they tell us that "We’Moon is also open to wimmin, girls, and boy-children under seven years" (hee. boy-children), and when they inform us that "Native American wimmin are welcome to stay here without paying a visitor fee," (because nothing is as P.C. and subversive to the patriarchy than a little reverse racism).

Movie Log:
Wayne's World 2
I mean, I was writing a college essay. Honest, mom! Don't kill me!

"In order to remember your name, I imagine a guy on a duck. But, like, a quaint duck."

2004-11-23T21:05:00.000-05:00

-the resident bopp-y, groovy jazz teacher, on how he remembers some chick named Something Quintman's name. Huh.

So, today's topic is "Why I am Not Crying Despite the Play Being Over"

1) Today marks the start of a beautiful little break in which I will go to a doctor, eat a turkey, and write college essays!

2) We're gonna get a DVD of a performance I was in.

3) One of my lines from the acting was on the tech shirt, thus bringing my dual roles full circle.

4) My English teacher said that "it was the best [she] ever saw [me] act."

5) This guy said I did a great job.

6) This guy, who has won a Tony(tm) and written funny stories and taught Shakespeare at schools, said that I "did a great job with a hard speech."

7) My advisor/chem teacher/resident amateur photographer got a really great picture of me acting for the wall of senior.

8) Middle school play--our favorite gay tenth graders are helping with it.

9) It's like a week later already. I wouldn't be crying even if I hadn't mentally blocked it.

10) I am currently at the house of a friend in which we awesomely just sat around a piano singing African-American spirituals (though the label says "Negro Spiritual," but we're P.C. like that). We're singing them like square-ass white folks, because we can't swing it and sing on the downbeat. But we _are_ square-ass white people. So there.

Book Log:
Word Freak, by Stefan Fatsis

Is it wrong that a book about the sad desperate lives of Scrabble obsessives and how the author got sucked into their world made me desperately crave to join in the fun and start playing competitive Scrabble? I think it was the Sal Piro participation that got me. He was sweet that one time I met him.

2004-11-17T22:29:00.000-05:00

How does it always fucking happen that I develop a crush on a different leading actress in every fucking play I'm in? Only for the last week or so, and then it carries over a week or so past. I can name one for this, Into the Woods, Trelawny, and... not Pajama Game, because I was too busy protecting the old, and _kinda_ You Can't Take it With You, but not really. But for the past three, goddammit.

In other news, play tomorrow! I'm so fucking psyched! I'm not even it in tomorrow, but when I'm not acting is when I truly get to shine.

It's funny how I just fell into stage managing as a way to get "in" with the director of a theater company, and how I have now left it as my default profession unless something more exciting comes up (i.e. being this guy or this guy or this guy or this guy or this chick or this guy) (and seriously, guys, click the links. I chose my links very carefully--they're probably the wittiest part. Especially in this post, under "circle of faces." Some of my finest work).

Wow, that was a long sentence. Anyway, the point is, I am the master stage manager, biatches. Actually, I think the point was something else, but I have lost the point.

Oh, right! The point was that I had the brilliant idea to write an epic poem called "Crushed" in which I simply chronicled, in rhyming iambic pentameter, all the mini-crushes I've gone through over high school. The motif, of course, would be the one crush standing true above the rest. What sayest thou, oh bully blogosphere?

"I like Michael Jackson, I like him a lot. I'm just happy that Michael Jackson has heard of me."

2004-11-15T00:29:00.000-05:00

-Eminem

He was asked to comment on the subject because Michael Jackson called Eminem racist. The problem is, Eminem is far blacker.

That joke was highly necessary, but will also be old faster than I can hit "publish."

My uncle, who is clearly unaware that I am a first semester senior and a drama fag on play week, cleaned out his closet and gave me a large quantity of books. Unfortunately, the aforementioned qualities have kept me from reading them, but it should be safe to say that I'm not writing any college essays when the play's done.

The Freud Reader
Asian Cult Cinema, by Thomas Weisser
Word Freak, by Stefen Fatsis
Long Day's Journey Into Night, by Eugene O'Neill
Porno, by Irvine Welsh
Two copies of Trainspotting, by Irvine Welsh
Lullaby and Choke, by Chuck Palahnuik, both of which I already own

That assortment depreses me to think of what he thinks of me.
I've been meaning to read all those books for quite some time.

Also: never do your homework when you're in a blogging mood, because you will turn out with a sentence like this:

planetesimals collided and accreted into protoplanets, which accreted into the inner terrestrial planets we know and love (Merc, V-dawg, Earthy-earth, and Marzzz would be their rapper names).

While you wait you can read my blog. It'll make minutes fly like hours.

2004-11-13T23:27:00.000-05:00

--a dude who wrote in his suicide note, "Dear World: I am leaving because I am bored."

Yesterday, after rehearsal's end, me, this one, her boyfriend, this one, and the Singing Wonder Boy decided to go to the house of the latter. I was prancing through the rain-soaked
streets, the couple up front, the Tracy-uses-boys back behind.

So as I was walking cross a curb, I noticed a large puddle. In order to appear whimsical and amusing, I jumped over the puddle and cut a bit of a caper, and closed my eyes in the leaping of it.

When I opened my eyes, I was looking up at a circle of faces (like those children, only more horrified). I was also in a wee bit of pain. It turns out that in my whimsy, I had encountered some scaffolding, which made bold with my nose and forehead. I've got a large gash on the former and a larger bump on the latter, a dull ache in both, and a very self-schadenfreude-licious story to tell.

In other news, uh... the OTP is seeming more of a comedy team, but that's okay too. They're young yet, and anal sex is gross (sayeth a cigarette whose name I will not reveal except to say he comes from a land far far away, full of Troupials.) (Wouldn't I make a great writer of Blind Items? Odds are a probable 12:7 that you have no fucking clue what I'm talking about.) (The odds are also a probable 12:7 that the guy's only doin' it for some doll, some doll, some doll. That guy's only doin' it for some dollllllllll.)

Also, Frankie is staring at me and it is stifling my creativity. Now she is gone and I can tell you how much of a hickey she has. How much, do you ask? Well, it's certainly visible. Now I shall to my house go / I wish I could rhyme as easily as Shakespeare-o.

Movie Log:
We had a Rupert Everett-fest last evening at the house of the SWB. I saw: Shrek 2 again, which I apparently never logged despite seeing it this May; A Midsummer Night's Dream, with horrible horrible Calista Flockhart and dull dull Christian Bale and all that feeling of how much better we are; and half of An Ideal Husband, which was as wonderful as its Wildean origin would have it be.

Then, tonight, I saw All About Eve, which beat them all with its wit, insight, and Bette Davis (as I remarked, in my most innocent, 50s-gee-whiz voice upon looking at this, the nicest picture I've ever seen of her, "She sure will cut you, bitch."

...

2004-11-11T22:55:00.000-05:00

Yo, if Arafat's dead, do we win? Can I stop obsessing over how to make the world not hate Jews? Here's some shit about him, anyway, that I'm in large part posting so that I'll remember to read it later.

My favorite sex columnist feels the reverberations of my pain: oh, elections. do shut up. Also, I want this shirt in addition to "america is scary."

In other news, I had a meeting with with Ms. "Punyspine", which was not bad. My list is "balanced," and she realllly wants me to get into my first choice. Hey, me too! We have something in common. (What she actually said was that I was a "strong candidate" but they like to "be conservative." It made me upset. I don't like to think about conservative candidates.)

In other, other news, I cannot write. C.f.:

In addition, around the world intra-familial kidnapping (chiefly enacted by the father after a custody battle) has become more prevalent, but some countries have not declared this to be an official “kidnapping.” Therefore, in order to facilitate an international effort, it is necessary to create a document outlining the definitions of what constitutes a “kidnapping.” We believe that a kidnapping is any confiscation of a person or persons motivated by personal, monetary, or political gain. If an international definition is shaped, it will also provide for clearer statistics on the matter; if all countries consider the same acts to fall under the heading of kidnapping, then all statistics from all countries will refer to the same sorts of data.

Book Log:
America: The Book
I'd read most of it at the Frank's and the Bean's (that is, both of Frankie's houses. Don't ask which is which, because I don't know), so when dad came home with it a few nights ago, it was only a matter of a few chapters till I'd at least skimmed it all. My sister, also, has taken to asking anyone she sees "In a feudal society, would you rather be a king or a peasant? Why or why not?"

Secession, anyone?

2004-11-05T21:13:00.000-05:00

Sigh.

The funeral was sort of surreal. We arrived, I was told how sorry a bunch of people I didn't know were for my loss, and then I went in to be the only person who wanted to see the body. It looked good. It was cold. The people watching me reminded me of Six Feet Under. I almost laughed. The service was sort of awesome, in that I became a sort of star when my other nutty great-aunt said "She used to love to do this Irish accent... I wish I could imitate it, and tell her to get the hell out of there and play some tennis" and I, being one in possesion of an Irish accent at least as good as Rozie could do, piped up with a "Get the hell out of theere, and play some tennis." My Alive-Aunt said "Yes! that's it exactly!" And the Rabbi smiled benevolently. Then a much-older cousin (by which I mean he's 55) told a touching story.

A few months ago, when Roz was in the hospital, I came to visit. She was humming under her breath for the whole hour. Near the end, she asked me if I knew the song, and I said no, but she told me it. I asked if she had it, and if I could bring it to her from home, but she said she didn't own it. So, I went out and bought it for her. Then she left the hospital, and I figured I'd save it for when she needed some cheering up. Well, this past stay in the hospital, I didn't get a chance to visit her, so here. [pulls out a discman and speakers, presses a button. Tony Bennet singing "You'll Never Get Away from Me" from Gypsy comes on.]

Cinematic, no?

Then we got to ride in a limo all the way out to the cemetery in Pyramus, New Jersey. I spent the ride through the cemetery reading off funny sounding names ("Richard Nanopowerstein: Rest In Peace"; "Those rocks mean that the Cokesonman family came to visit the other day"). We threw dirt on the coffin. The most disconcerting part was when my wheelchair bound grandmother (Thanks, Governator! That's not sarcastic! He supports stem-cell research!) was wheeled over the spot where she will one day be buried.

Then I came home and sat shiva and bonded with my older cousin. She's the one who inspired me to get into theater, because I saw her play the Baker's Wife in her 8th grade production of Into the Woods when I was seven and was hooked. She, too, is obsessed with the New Yorker and the acquisition of random information; she, too, loves to sing Negro spirituals in choruses; and she, too, loves my cat.

"I earned capital in the campaign, political capital, and now I intend to spend it,"

2004-11-04T20:38:00.000-05:00

-Newly Legitimatized President Dubya
(Why, America, why? I'm so buying one of these when it's back in stock.)

So, my mother said something very wise to me in an e-mail today.

I'd emailed her first, to let her know

English test for which I didn't prepare - A
Physics test for which I did - 88
Money I owe Linda because she's taking the musical theatre class [I meant "independent study" - ed.] to see Pacific Overtures soon - $31
Still - have not been able to cry.

You might think that that last bit was about the election, presidential and otherwise, and you are in part right.

However, at one o'clock yesterday, around the same time Kerry was conceding the presidency after all this (and by "all this," I mean not only this year but basically his entire life's actions and ambitions since he was, like, fifteen), my great-aunt Rozie died.

Rozie was, to put it kindly, a bit eccentric. To put it bluntly, she was loud, overweight, racist, overconifident, cheap, a hoarder, unaware, and very, very affectionate. If I ever wanted to hear any family secrets, I could just listen to her talk for a few minutes. If I ever wanted any old newspapers since the Eisenhower era, I could visit her house. If I ever needed an oversized sweatshirt with a picture of a tiger on it, I could borrow one from her closet. If I ever needed reassurance that I would one day find a "good man" and "settle down" as a "journalist," I could just mention myself. Her main role at family functions was to embarass me and provide my father and my uncle great material for some really mean jokes. She adored me, and I adored her.

A few years ago, she was diagnosed with lymphoma--cancer of the lymph nodes, or the immune-system stuff. That's the kind that spreads the most quickly. Amazingly, for all of last year she was in remission, but it came back in the spring. Then, a few weeks ago, during a checkup, the doctors noticed some fluid in her lungs. They took her in, ran a few tests, and let her out. Then, a week later, something happened, she went to the hospital, and her kidneys were taken out. After a week or so of dialysis, she died.

Now you, my loyal readers, may not know this, but I am a big cryer. Despite the butch-like-a-duck persona I put on for y'all, I'll cry at most anything. I'll cry at screwball comedies. I cry for no reason. A lot of the crying is anger or self-loathing, but it's still often. Somehow, however, my first instinct yesterday was to freeze up. My sister wailed and spasmed and was generally more upset than I'd ever seen her. I felt inadequate in my emotions, and instead took to babying her, bringing her soda and blankets and the cat.

So, anyway, I had e-mailed mom that I still couldn't cry, and this was her wise response:

not worried about the crying --you cry at the drop of the hat for
nothing so crying is not your most intense emotion --in fact, silence
seems to be

And it's true.

"The tension in the courtroom was so palpable you could feel it."

2004-10-31T02:20:00.000-05:00

-Dave Barry

Since google and yahoo and all them hate me and want perverts to read my blog, until someone sends me a new tagline, I will periodically changing it to semi-pornographic things.

So today's adventure has to do with Hot Gay Andalite on Andalite Action!

I don't really feel like explaining the premise of the Animorphs series, but google, which manages to make me out to be vaguely creepy, has nothing good. Basically, five people meet a dying alien (an Andalite, a blue creature with the legs of a horse, tail of a scorpian, upper body of a human, and fairly-human face minus the mouth and plus stalk-eyes) who gives them the technology to "morph" into any other living creature by aquiring their DNA (by touching them) and concentrating real hard. There's: Jake, who is a leader; Rachel, and though she be but "gorgeous" she is fierce; Marco, who wisecracks; Cassie, who is black and loves animals; and Tobias, who is sensitive and gets stuck in the form of a red-tailed hawk and on whom I had a huge crush when I was 8. Later, they meet up with another one of the aliens, Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill (Ax), who on the Andalite homeworld is just a dumb kid like them, but to them, he is wise. (In human morph, Ax likes to eat in a way that is sort of obsessive, and also likes to repeat sounds people make. Because of that, Rie has decided that I'm Ax, and I'll tend to agree.) So, the reason the dying alien (a famous war-hero and Ax's older brother) gives them this "technology" is because there are these evil parasites called "Yeerks" that look like slugs and take over your brain through your ear. Andalites try to keep the universe free from the enslavement, but since there are few forces on Earth right now, the four kids, random alien, and red-tailed hawk are all that's against a huge, beuracratic, well organized force of aliens! And they make inroads towards winning every book!

So, this one book I just read is near the end of the series and narrated by Marco (if you'll recall, he wisecracks; this is evidenced by his realization, during the battle scene, that "ladders take you places that you are not."). Via Marco's prediliction towards bad TV, they discover two other Andalites on the planet Gafinlan-Estrif-Valad and Mertil-Iscar-Elmand. Gafinlan and Mertil are shorms, which is the Andalite word for "Best Friends 4Eva." They are also fierce and much-admired warriors, which means they are prominent in the war-and-honor-based Andalite culture. However, one day their ship crashes, and they are the only survivors. In the crash, Mertil loses half of his tail! In Andalite culture, this makes him a vecol, which is a derogatory term for the differently-abled (like cripple. However, the further you read into the book, the more you realize that it totally means faggot). Most Andalites, when their tail gets cut off, simply morph, and then, when they demorph, they can use their healthy DNA and be normal (the DNA stuff is cracked-out), but poor Mertil is allergic to the morphing technology. Gaf (his name is hard to pronounce. and spell), meanwhile, has a rare, disorder called AIDS--I mean Soola's disease (and it's gentic, he can't morph it away). There are whole subplots and debates about whether to trust Gaf (Mertil is not encountered till the end), but it turns out Mertil has been captured by the evil Yeerks. The Yeerks don't want him, because he's a fag-col, and when Gaf offers to trade Mert's life for his, Mert's already told the Yeerks about Gaf's immuno-deficeincy, and who wants an all-but-dead-guy as a host body/hostage/whatever? The Yeerks decide to set Mertil's ransom at one healthy Andalite, so Gaf is looking for one, but of course it transpires that the Animorphs will set on a dare-devil mission to rescue this random vec-got from the evil yeerks in the name of friendship. Ax, however, is too entrenched in Andalite culture, and doesn't believe a facolt is worth his risking his life. The humans decide to go for it, however, because they're compassionate and accepting, and will even help a sad little AIDS-ridden man in suburbia (Gaf has a whole human identity set up, in which he lives the life of a lonely bachelor in a "house right out of Martha Stewart Living") find his crippled gay lover. He is saved, and Mertil is sad and philisophical ("I am surprised that you were willing to risk your lives for me. As I am."), but vows that "As Gafinilan has cared for me, so now I will care for him." It made me giggle in OTP-ness.

In other wacky gay news, we saw Rocky Horror. My 20th time. It's so fun and cool and all that, I don't even care that I lost my voice.

Movie Log:
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
Speaking of wacky gayness. I'll allow one of the TWOP recappers to explain the plot and pretty much everything I wanted to say about it for me.

A little background here for those of you who may not be familiar with this movie: for a post WWII/Pre-Stonewall gay man, a viewing of this film is generally considered as important to one's development as a Bar Mitzvah is for a Jewish adolescent. Ever wonder why drag queens are always saying, "But ya are in that chair, Blanche! Ya are!" to each other? It all stems from WEHTBJ. It's about two elderly sisters who used to be big stars and hate each other. Blanche, the good one, is crippled, and thus Baby Jane, the evil one, takes care of her and uses her physical advantage to make Blanche's life a living hell. I don't know what it is biologically, culturally or otherwise about being gay that makes one shriek with laughter over the sight of a chair-bound, teary-eyed Joan Crawford being served a rat for dinner or Bette Davis, wearing way too much pancake makeup, singing "I'm Writing a Letter to Daddy," but what this implies about my people disturbs me.

Workin' Overtime on the Bloggeting Machine

2004-10-29T16:28:00.000-04:00

Happy birthday, my dearest cheerleader.

Shit, now I'm going to get a google search for cheerleader porn. I really oughta get a new tagline. Suggestions go to polymathematics@hotmail.com.

Speaking of crazy searches... I pity this poor guy (urinary tract infection, probably--talk to your doctor!), and am highly amused by the one looking for "duck cruelty."

In other news:

      All the day long,
      Whether rain or shine,
      She's a part of the assembly line.
      She's making history,
      Working for victory,
      Rosie the Riveter.
      Keeps a sharp lookout for sabatoge,
      Sitting up there on the fuselage.
      That little girl will do more than a male will do.
      Rosie's got a boyfriend, Charlie.
      Charlie, he's a Marine.
      Rosie is protecting Charlie,
      Working overtime on the riveting machine.
      When they gave her a production "E,"
      She was as proud as she could be.
      There's something true about,
      Red, white, and blue about...

Me! Because I am Rosie for Halloween, and Wetblanket called my butched-up Rosie attire "attractive." The whole affair reminds me of a certain long-neglected riveting pair, that has allegedly been abandoned.

Six electoral votes forward, five votes back

2004-10-26T23:44:00.000-04:00

[/Tortured attempt to make a combined reference to Hedwig and Politics]

Must... stop... looking... at... polls...

But they can recombinate the data all pretty-like! Like, here's a map drawn to scale of electoral votes, or population. Makes the country seem less skewed than the regular, geographic maps, wherein the entire center of the country looks red(necked! Oh, burn).

And yeah, polls don't mean shit, because you've got the Republicans answering the phone and the youth cell-phone voters and the various forms of polling and the question format and the subjectivity thereof and the glavin. But... it's so convenient. And mom has forbade me from trekking over to Pennsylvania on Nov. 2, because I have a stupid fucking Physics test, so the least I can do is worry obsessively.

In other political news, the New Yorker is _finally_ taking a political stance, after 80 years of merely being understood to be liberal commies who will eat your babies, and then discuss the "savory aroma" and "piquant textures" great length, with some witty cartoons at the bottom. Perhaps this is just me, but I'm pretty sure that the editors know that everyone knows how very pinko they lean, and that the "Comment" is just an exercize in reminding people how much more important than this election is than most others.

On a non-politics related note, check out this here search. Way to make me feel totally perverted and disgusting, Yahoo!.

Oh, and googlers looking for Team America lyrics who have not yet found them? Here. Googlers looking for pornography, I still don't have any. Though if you find some really funny porn with a plot, Message Sharpie at the bottom of the post.

Movie Log:
Hedwig and the Angry Inch
Fuckin' trippy movie, man. John Cameron Mitchell was way vanity-projecting it, but the music was quite good, and it's always fun to bond with one's mother by rocking out to a song about a botched sex-change operation.

In Which Politics and the Rumor Mill are More Important than Homework. Or College.

2004-10-21T01:49:00.000-04:00

Electoral vote.com is the most nervewrecking site ever. And also interesting, full of details about polls. And even if our guy wins the Presidential election, he can't do shit without a solid democratic senate. Here, some info on the Senate races. (for example, did you know that someone is running against Chuck Schumer for the NY Senate Seat? Way to get exposure "Howard Mills," if that's your really name.)

Georgia: Zell Miller (allegedly Dem) is leaving to go get treatment for his rage problems, and so a conservative who's actually Republican in name (actually, Johnny Isakson in name, and if you're old enough to be a Senator, it's time to leave the "ny" to the underground comics which actually have another n and anyway) is gonna take over.

Illinois: Speaking of Keynote speakers at political conventions... how bout that Barack Obama (who totally has 69 percent of the polls right now, and hee, 69 looks like two people giving each other oral sex!)? Alan Keyes, meanwhile, a completely insane homophobic Marylander, is trying desperately to pull some votes away. Anyway, Mr. Obama is gonna be the first black senator (I think ever, though I seem to recall something in a history ). (Mr. Keyes would also be a black senator, because he is in fact a black person.) (I'm not racist. Except that everyone's a little bit racist. I miss Avenue Q.)

Kentucky:

[Jim] Bunning should have won handily, but his behavior has been increasingly bizarre of late. He said that his opponent [Daniel Mongiardo] looked like one of Saddam's sons. Then he broke the agreement to debate Mongiardo in Kentucky and did it from the RNC headquarters in Washington by satellite. It later came out that he was reading from a TelePrompTer, which led to instant speculation that he was having serious mental problems. Two weeks before the election, it became a tossup.

Heeee! Bunning, meet karma. Karma, meet Bunning's ass. Come, have a bite.

Louisiana: Of special interest to my darling Nawlinser--but common wisdom is the Rep is gonna win, because right now there are two Dems and the election is in TWELVE FUCKING DAYS.
Ahem. Sorry. I get out of control.

So, about that gossiping... I have nothing more to say about it. I'm loving the infamy-by-association, and I'm loving knowing all this detail, and... well, I'd say they're the OTP 4EVa!!1!ONE and so cute and whatever, but I haven't really seen them in that much action yet. As I commented elsewhere, "Will and Frankie sittin' in a tree / H-O-L-D-I-N-G Hands." And then there's protectiveness and jealousy and fear and loathing and Las Vegas and the hurry and the noise.

And there's more drama with the Drama department (a-hahahh...), but I'll save that till post Dinner Party.

Oh, and I can't wait until the Red Sox lose in the World Series. They can't blame it on the Bambino anymore, if they do. (If they win, then they can pretend they ended the curse of the Bambino, thanks to that kid on the Daily Show on Monday.)

Edited To Add:
I just did a word survey of my last seven posts.
Rep(ublicans) 4 times
Dem(ocrats) 7 times
Politics 4 times
Kerry 13 times
Bush 7 times
College 6 times
What's on my mind, y'all?