So I got asked out again last night. Twice. One was a drunk Israeli offering to buy me a ticket to Jerusalem, to whom I gave the name Sofia and the number to a pizza place. The other was for real. Seriously, this is weird.
It was my very last Blackout Thursday at Q's. I'm confident that there will be recurrences when I visit, but my last for now was bittersweet and full of Blue Moon. For some reason the vibe was very "Let's just all get pitchers. I'll get one, don't worry. Let's share," rather than the usual furtive pitcher-poaching to which everyone occasionally falls prey.
Today I finish packing and tomorrow leave the Mondo Condo. I've more or less decided to hit Portland on the way home (it's only an 11-hour detour...) and am now more seriously considering Mount Rushmore. I don't know.
This is kind of boring. I'm sorry. It's the move. I spend most of my days wandering the apartment with Mildred, thinking of ways to avoid doing anything. It's the move. It'll be over soon. Witty parlor games and a ceaseless flow of laughter will soon again flow from this screen.
Oh, and if you have federal student loans, consolidate TODAY!
6.30.2006
6.29.2006
I Have Enough Activity Partners, Thank You
Yaf invited me to join the hottest new social networking site on the Web.
You've got to check it out!
You've got to check it out!
6.28.2006
I'm Going To Move More Often
I got asked out today. Third guy in two weeks. So very not the norm.
"I'm moving," is apparently the sexiest thing you can say.
"I'm moving," is apparently the sexiest thing you can say.
Fugdom Tower
Okay, so it isn't actually fugly. The plaza actually looks ~exactly like the PATH exit at the old WTC, of which my memories are fond.
But honestly, I'd rather they called it the Fugdom Tower.
It just seems more fitting.
6.27.2006
Fuckertons
I was originally going to stay in my apartment until July 6th.
But now the new girl needs to move in July 1st.
So... three days to move out versus nine.
Ohhhhh, fuck.
But now the new girl needs to move in July 1st.
So... three days to move out versus nine.
Ohhhhh, fuck.
6.26.2006
6.25.2006
He Returneth
So yesterday Dennis and I went to a "Friends & Family" Superman Returns screening on the Warner Bros. lot. Narni's invite had teased: "Get ready for a Legendary experience..." (She works for Legendary). She did not disappoint.
As far as the movie, I can't give an unbiased review. You will not have it introduced by an endearingly, pants-crappingly nervous Bryan Singer. Nor will Brandon Routh and Kevin Spacey bound on stage afterwards, to tout our presence and support and explain what those little green men in the HBO First Look special were doing behind the Man of Steel.
That said, you'll still see the close-up of a bullet bouncing off Superman's eye, and all of Parker Posey's batty hairstyles. The movie was pretty awesome.
At the reception, Narni and her Black Sunglasses of Rejection protected the talent from those without photo passes.
Who are presumably people like me, who try to catch famouses fixing their hair.
We eventually met the Man of Steel, who was very nice and I'm pretty sure dreading next weekend, when normal life officially ends for good. You could kind of see the repressed fear in his eyes. There are pictures, but they are TK.
After that we drank about a million wee cups of wine and flitted about Fake New York.
La la!
Thank you Narni!
California, I will miss you.
(But I can always come back).
As far as the movie, I can't give an unbiased review. You will not have it introduced by an endearingly, pants-crappingly nervous Bryan Singer. Nor will Brandon Routh and Kevin Spacey bound on stage afterwards, to tout our presence and support and explain what those little green men in the HBO First Look special were doing behind the Man of Steel.
That said, you'll still see the close-up of a bullet bouncing off Superman's eye, and all of Parker Posey's batty hairstyles. The movie was pretty awesome.
At the reception, Narni and her Black Sunglasses of Rejection protected the talent from those without photo passes.
Who are presumably people like me, who try to catch famouses fixing their hair.
We eventually met the Man of Steel, who was very nice and I'm pretty sure dreading next weekend, when normal life officially ends for good. You could kind of see the repressed fear in his eyes. There are pictures, but they are TK.
After that we drank about a million wee cups of wine and flitted about Fake New York.
La la!
Thank you Narni!
California, I will miss you.
(But I can always come back).
6.24.2006
Hollywood Hillsbillies
Narni and I went to Hirsh's birthday party last night. I barely know the guy, but I do know that he's worth ~half a billion, and so was curious to see his surely impressive Beverly Hills manse. If only the "beverages welcome" disclaimer on the invite had tipped me off.
We putted up Benedict Canyon, the street getting bumpier as we climbed. After manually moving a grate to park in a ditch, we noticed the house at the top of the hill. I think he bought it from the Clampetts, who had it built when they first moved to LA in a fit of Appalachian nostalgia. It looked, from a distance, as though we were actually attending a barn-raising. Narni picked through the gravel paths, rather regretting her heels.
Nothing much to report, although I am happy to share that the Paint LA Brown crowd has gotten over its velveteen blazer thing (and the house, closer up, was really nice, with a sweet kitchen. Hirsh, in a fit of drunken friendlies, told me all about the discount oven supply warehouse that I must check out).
Also, I'm pretty sure that Turban is on next season's Apprentice.
We putted up Benedict Canyon, the street getting bumpier as we climbed. After manually moving a grate to park in a ditch, we noticed the house at the top of the hill. I think he bought it from the Clampetts, who had it built when they first moved to LA in a fit of Appalachian nostalgia. It looked, from a distance, as though we were actually attending a barn-raising. Narni picked through the gravel paths, rather regretting her heels.
Nothing much to report, although I am happy to share that the Paint LA Brown crowd has gotten over its velveteen blazer thing (and the house, closer up, was really nice, with a sweet kitchen. Hirsh, in a fit of drunken friendlies, told me all about the discount oven supply warehouse that I must check out).
Also, I'm pretty sure that Turban is on next season's Apprentice.
6.22.2006
Fever: Broken
Mother and I spent the last ten minutes of the first half shouting at each other.
"Yes! Gooooooooal!"
"And it was a good one!"
"And we scored it ourselves!"
"Is Italy still up?"
"Oh, we're going to win. I just feel it."
"Wait, what was that?"
"FUCKING ONYEWU."
"It's not a PK?"
"It is."
"Who attacks IN THE BOX?!"
"RIGHT AFTER THE TIE!"
"And there's the game."
"What?"
"You're on West Coast delay, wait for it."
"Wha-- oh."
"Game."
So that's that. McBride's offsides debacle last weekend plus Ogechyu's not-really-an-attack in the box sealed it up for the group, and the US is out. Disappointing, but what can you do. The more I think about the bogus calls--Mastroeni's red card, the non-tackle penalty kick--the more I realize who the real culprit is here. It isn't Bruce Arena and his "let's play it back against the Czechs." It isn't even McBride and his glory-hogging or Landon Donovan's playing like ass. It's George W. Bush. Yes, the President. He made the world hate us, and the World Cup (and its Uruguayan/German refs) joined in.
Iraq cost us round one. And they aren't even playing!
Rooting for Italy now (I have to; my last name ends in vowel).
"Yes! Gooooooooal!"
"And it was a good one!"
"And we scored it ourselves!"
"Is Italy still up?"
"Oh, we're going to win. I just feel it."
"Wait, what was that?"
"FUCKING ONYEWU."
"It's not a PK?"
"It is."
"Who attacks IN THE BOX?!"
"RIGHT AFTER THE TIE!"
"And there's the game."
"What?"
"You're on West Coast delay, wait for it."
"Wha-- oh."
"Game."
So that's that. McBride's offsides debacle last weekend plus Ogechyu's not-really-an-attack in the box sealed it up for the group, and the US is out. Disappointing, but what can you do. The more I think about the bogus calls--Mastroeni's red card, the non-tackle penalty kick--the more I realize who the real culprit is here. It isn't Bruce Arena and his "let's play it back against the Czechs." It isn't even McBride and his glory-hogging or Landon Donovan's playing like ass. It's George W. Bush. Yes, the President. He made the world hate us, and the World Cup (and its Uruguayan/German refs) joined in.
Iraq cost us round one. And they aren't even playing!
Rooting for Italy now (I have to; my last name ends in vowel).
6.21.2006
Your Day Will Come
If you spend any time on the Promenade on the weekends, you might know Crazy Dude With The Glasses. He stands at the corner of Third and Santa Monica and proselytizes loudly behind his thick, taped bifocals. They aren't taped in the nose or on the side in manner of Revenge of the Nerds, but rather on the glass itself. Two decorative squares of electrical tape. One black, one red.
He's sitting across from me at the library right now, deep into some kind of book and about to move on to The Paintings of Joan Mitchell, which I can't really fault, and is wearing a "Turner" emblazoned cap, to which he has added, also in red electrical tape, the words "Ted" and "Jane Fonda Tanks."
I think he's napping now.
Attached to his suitcase is a small banner reading "Shabut Ra."
Neither Google nor Wikipedia know what this is.
He's sitting across from me at the library right now, deep into some kind of book and about to move on to The Paintings of Joan Mitchell, which I can't really fault, and is wearing a "Turner" emblazoned cap, to which he has added, also in red electrical tape, the words "Ted" and "Jane Fonda Tanks."
I think he's napping now.
Attached to his suitcase is a small banner reading "Shabut Ra."
Neither Google nor Wikipedia know what this is.
6.20.2006
Life Purge
Did some deep breathing with a paper bag, watched some Life As We Know It, and got back on track. Today began the packing process, which commenced with the traditional Purging Life Of All Extraneous Matter, to be soon followed with Packing All Relevant Life Matter Into Rubbermaid Containers, and, because items like ski gear and my KitchenAid render flying/shipping a stupid idea, to finish with Wedging All Rubbermaid Containers And Additional Life Matter Unsuited For Rubbermaid Containage Due To Size And/Or Shape Restraints into my Camry.
Some people find the Extraneous Life Matter Purge revivifying, as if they have wriggled from life's coils and may now drift towards their true and higher purpose. By "some people," I mean my mother. On this point we differ. I love my stuff. All of it. I love, for example, my pink floral-print polyester polo shirt that I brought back from Italy in the summer of 1996. I look at its curly magenta florets and think of Venice, and the blue nail polish I insisted on wearing, and eating Gelato on the ferry over Lake Maggiore. Also, how I wore it to my fifteenth birthday party at the bowling alley, and to a Mirecourt rush event freshman spring. Who cares that I haven't worn it in three years? Does that mean I'm supposed to give it to Goodwill, where it will invariably end up on the floor of some hipster's bedroom after said hipster has removed one of its sleeves? How will this hipster know that it's slightly too delicate to go in the dryer?
But the Extraneous Life Matter Purge is key, I know, and in this case not just metaphorically. I may not have brought all that much stuff to California (with a two-week drive and a good couple weeks of living out of the vehicle/couch-crashing, I was trying to avoid the whole "Burgle me!" look), but I've accumulated quite a bit in the past year and a half. I mean, I got all those books from Amazon. And the feather mattress cover when I moved in. The ski suits from Aunt M. I looked at my piles of shit this morning and thought maybe I should just push the move to August. There's just so much junk. And not just the clothes and the books and the stolen office supplies of temp jobs past. I have to notify my credit card companies and I think change checking accounts. I, come to think of it, have to notify my landlord. That's kind of a big one, I should make a note of that. There are all of the perishables in the fridge I should eat. My nineteen bags of peas in the freezer.
Are these honestly the weights keeping me in California? Frozen peas?
No, of course not. It's friends who Photoshop party pictures, or call me shouting "Listen to this!", or who can bake cookies while stoned, or don't mind when I put kind of a lot of unflattering photos of them on Facebook. And it's sun, and the city's generally deserved reputation as the Land Of Opportunity If You Would Only Claim It, and a mild feeling that when I leave, I'll be admitting defeat.
I can live with defeat.
Just as long as I have my polyester polo.
Some people find the Extraneous Life Matter Purge revivifying, as if they have wriggled from life's coils and may now drift towards their true and higher purpose. By "some people," I mean my mother. On this point we differ. I love my stuff. All of it. I love, for example, my pink floral-print polyester polo shirt that I brought back from Italy in the summer of 1996. I look at its curly magenta florets and think of Venice, and the blue nail polish I insisted on wearing, and eating Gelato on the ferry over Lake Maggiore. Also, how I wore it to my fifteenth birthday party at the bowling alley, and to a Mirecourt rush event freshman spring. Who cares that I haven't worn it in three years? Does that mean I'm supposed to give it to Goodwill, where it will invariably end up on the floor of some hipster's bedroom after said hipster has removed one of its sleeves? How will this hipster know that it's slightly too delicate to go in the dryer?
But the Extraneous Life Matter Purge is key, I know, and in this case not just metaphorically. I may not have brought all that much stuff to California (with a two-week drive and a good couple weeks of living out of the vehicle/couch-crashing, I was trying to avoid the whole "Burgle me!" look), but I've accumulated quite a bit in the past year and a half. I mean, I got all those books from Amazon. And the feather mattress cover when I moved in. The ski suits from Aunt M. I looked at my piles of shit this morning and thought maybe I should just push the move to August. There's just so much junk. And not just the clothes and the books and the stolen office supplies of temp jobs past. I have to notify my credit card companies and I think change checking accounts. I, come to think of it, have to notify my landlord. That's kind of a big one, I should make a note of that. There are all of the perishables in the fridge I should eat. My nineteen bags of peas in the freezer.
Are these honestly the weights keeping me in California? Frozen peas?
No, of course not. It's friends who Photoshop party pictures, or call me shouting "Listen to this!", or who can bake cookies while stoned, or don't mind when I put kind of a lot of unflattering photos of them on Facebook. And it's sun, and the city's generally deserved reputation as the Land Of Opportunity If You Would Only Claim It, and a mild feeling that when I leave, I'll be admitting defeat.
I can live with defeat.
Just as long as I have my polyester polo.
6.19.2006
Route Planning: Update
WHY AM I MOVING AWAY FROM CALIFORNIA SUMMER IN JANUARY MY FRIENDS MY BEACH WHAT THE FUCK AM I THINKING#WI!@N#W L:K!H@3cp oksdjhftueii ew4829hWIEOHUF4tu"LK:"
ohdearohdearohdearohdearohdear
ohdearohdearohdearohdearohdear
Route Planning
I remember route planning with PWILD. We'd all draw who got which drop-off point and which climbing day, at which point my group got invariably screwed, and then everyone was off in corners of the Gilbert-Addams dorm basement figuring out how to avoid the Pink Beds and get the best day, conditioning-wise, to scale Pilot. Route planning usually ended with everyone feeling they'd gotten screwed with their pants on, but at least the day had been productive.
Despite the large changes of company and locale, route planning today is more or less the same. I'm at the Santa Monica library with a US atlas and the not very useful Google Maps, discovering that all my dreams of visiting Crater Lake and Yellowstone en route back East involve 12-hour detours. Goodbye, Mount Rushmore (which was featured on Treasure Hunters last night and honestly, the show is bad enough that I could do with never seeing a reminder of it, ever).
Maybe I'll just fly.
Despite the large changes of company and locale, route planning today is more or less the same. I'm at the Santa Monica library with a US atlas and the not very useful Google Maps, discovering that all my dreams of visiting Crater Lake and Yellowstone en route back East involve 12-hour detours. Goodbye, Mount Rushmore (which was featured on Treasure Hunters last night and honestly, the show is bad enough that I could do with never seeing a reminder of it, ever).
Maybe I'll just fly.
6.18.2006
Car-eye-o-kay
K. tends to have musical birthdays. I think I can recall parties from back in the day that included musical chairs, and me getting huffy because I didn't win, but that could have just as easily been Jeannie Smith's or Stephanie Giblin's; I can, however, attest with certainty that two years ago involved singing and last year prominently featured a boom box and Usher's "Yeah!"
So last night we went, yet again, to Gaslite Karaoke Saturday, again furthering my prediction that when I return to New York people will look at my pictures and wonder if we ever left that bar with the tinsel on the walls or just occasionally changed our clothes in the bathroom. Euge and I warbled out a tender duet, K. sang her Frankie Valli, and Dennis belted out a rendition of "Vertigo" that would make Bono proud, in that "I have a very special son" kind of way.
Hello hello!
I'm in a place called Vertigo!
This song makes no sense!
Quatorze!
(Pictures TK).
Despite the rampant Gaslite merriment, the day's real highlight came much earlier, at a noon call for World Cup watchers at Ye Olde King's Head by the ocean walk. While we chattered nonstop about Ghana's upset and stacked pint glasses to the ceiling, Italy scored on itself and pretty, pretty De Rossi delivered pretty, pretty McBride a pretty nasty elbow to his very pretty face. The fortuitous signs against the Azores did not unfortunately coalesce for a win, but now both K.'s Italian and American heritages have the possibility of making it out of the group. So I suppose it's all right. Even if that red card against Mastroeni was utter bullshit and McBride's offsides shamble cost us the game.
We stumbled out around four, blinking at the ocean and palm trees, wondering if Santa Monica had always been that bright.
So last night we went, yet again, to Gaslite Karaoke Saturday, again furthering my prediction that when I return to New York people will look at my pictures and wonder if we ever left that bar with the tinsel on the walls or just occasionally changed our clothes in the bathroom. Euge and I warbled out a tender duet, K. sang her Frankie Valli, and Dennis belted out a rendition of "Vertigo" that would make Bono proud, in that "I have a very special son" kind of way.
Hello hello!
I'm in a place called Vertigo!
This song makes no sense!
Quatorze!
(Pictures TK).
Despite the rampant Gaslite merriment, the day's real highlight came much earlier, at a noon call for World Cup watchers at Ye Olde King's Head by the ocean walk. While we chattered nonstop about Ghana's upset and stacked pint glasses to the ceiling, Italy scored on itself and pretty, pretty De Rossi delivered pretty, pretty McBride a pretty nasty elbow to his very pretty face. The fortuitous signs against the Azores did not unfortunately coalesce for a win, but now both K.'s Italian and American heritages have the possibility of making it out of the group. So I suppose it's all right. Even if that red card against Mastroeni was utter bullshit and McBride's offsides shamble cost us the game.
We stumbled out around four, blinking at the ocean and palm trees, wondering if Santa Monica had always been that bright.
6.16.2006
Yay!
My cousin had a baby!
Another adorable creature to cuddle and squish, who will effortlessly wrap every adult she meets around her tiny, barely formed little fingers. Smeleanor will teach her.
Yay!
Another adorable creature to cuddle and squish, who will effortlessly wrap every adult she meets around her tiny, barely formed little fingers. Smeleanor will teach her.
Yay!
6.15.2006
K. Is Famous!
Tashy, K., and I had dinner at Koi last night (scratch that one off the list, oh, the delight of accomplishment). We moaned over miso-glazed cod and saw a minor celebrity (who went to Millburn High, natch), but the real highlight was when the paparazzi mistook K. for a newly brunette Cameron Diaz. A little hair dye won't fool them!
They got suspicious, though, when she didn't hit back.
They got suspicious, though, when she didn't hit back.
6.14.2006
It's Brilliant!
What's better than watching Jamie Oliver create flour crust chicken on the Food Network?
I think it's being able to call a friend and have your "Hey, let's make that weird chicken-in-a-crust thing from Oliver's Twist" met with an alacratic, "Okay!"
We were skeptical--Jamie's instructions were, to put it mildly, vague. "Jes pop it in th' oven fer two ow-ahs! I like to do me own on a stack of newspapah"--
But somehow, it worked.
Yeah, denude that bitch. Biddie. Hen. Whatever.
I think it's being able to call a friend and have your "Hey, let's make that weird chicken-in-a-crust thing from Oliver's Twist" met with an alacratic, "Okay!"
We were skeptical--Jamie's instructions were, to put it mildly, vague. "Jes pop it in th' oven fer two ow-ahs! I like to do me own on a stack of newspapah"--
But somehow, it worked.
Yeah, denude that bitch. Biddie. Hen. Whatever.
6.12.2006
Czech Please
The US opener vs. Czech Republic: 3-0, Eastern Europeans.
So, I still love World Cup Soccer:
I mean, who wouldn't?
But 3-0? THREE TO ZERO?!!? Including a second goal taken from thirty yards? No. Come on, country.
This is looking bad.
So, I still love World Cup Soccer:
I mean, who wouldn't?
But 3-0? THREE TO ZERO?!!? Including a second goal taken from thirty yards? No. Come on, country.
This is looking bad.
6.09.2006
Recent Improvements
K. got a phone call from her very macho and Italian brother and father yesterday.
"K., what starts tomorrow?"
"You get one guess, or we disown you."
2006 FIFA WORLD CUP!!!!!!!
Germany has already taken down Costa Rica in a nails resting casually on the sofa match. Except F that, every World Cup game is exciting.
Then I got some other exciting news today, but I'll share it next week.
I'm also nearly finished with a self-portrait that actually looks like me (painting on the roof is my new hobby, now that we're in summer rerun hiatus). Except now I don't know what to do with it, because who really wants to hang a giant painting of oneself? (Besides Kristy). Also, I had to turn it against the wall last night because it was kind of freaking me out.
And A Prairie Home Companion comes out today.
Yay.
"K., what starts tomorrow?"
"You get one guess, or we disown you."
2006 FIFA WORLD CUP!!!!!!!
Germany has already taken down Costa Rica in a nails resting casually on the sofa match. Except F that, every World Cup game is exciting.
Then I got some other exciting news today, but I'll share it next week.
I'm also nearly finished with a self-portrait that actually looks like me (painting on the roof is my new hobby, now that we're in summer rerun hiatus). Except now I don't know what to do with it, because who really wants to hang a giant painting of oneself? (Besides Kristy). Also, I had to turn it against the wall last night because it was kind of freaking me out.
And A Prairie Home Companion comes out today.
Yay.
6.08.2006
On Gardasil
So the FDA just announced approval for a cervical cancer vaccine. What excellent news. The disease kills around 300,000 women each year. It's usually prompted by HPV, the human papilloma virus, which is sexually transmitted. HPV is more or less symptom-free, except, of course, when it sticks around and causes deadly cancers, and condoms don't prevent it from spreading; more or less everyone has some form of it at some point.
But if it's so ubiquitous, that makes the vaccine even more of a breakthrough, right? It removes HPV's main negative effect!
Oh wait.
I forgot about the Christians.
Let's ask Linda Klepacki, Focus on the Family's sexual health analyst, what she thinks.
"We can prevent [cervical cancer] by the best public health method, and that's not having sex before marriage," says she. Hm. Does premarital sex cause asthma, then? Lung cancer? Diabetes? Rickets? Are you calling SIDS babies sluts? Are you sure about that being the best public health method, there, Lin? Are you sure that you want to say that those with cancer deserve it?
For someone who probably refutes evolution, she's got an interesting Darwin belief going on.
PS She's also an author.
But if it's so ubiquitous, that makes the vaccine even more of a breakthrough, right? It removes HPV's main negative effect!
Oh wait.
I forgot about the Christians.
Let's ask Linda Klepacki, Focus on the Family's sexual health analyst, what she thinks.
"We can prevent [cervical cancer] by the best public health method, and that's not having sex before marriage," says she. Hm. Does premarital sex cause asthma, then? Lung cancer? Diabetes? Rickets? Are you calling SIDS babies sluts? Are you sure about that being the best public health method, there, Lin? Are you sure that you want to say that those with cancer deserve it?
For someone who probably refutes evolution, she's got an interesting Darwin belief going on.
PS She's also an author.
6.07.2006
6.06.2006
Next Benedict
Benedict is this guy, not exactly a friend, just this person I know who's slept with a large fraction of my friends. I don't say it with judgment--he's a bit of the gentleman lover type, good for a night or two and then perfectly pleasant to chat with at the next week's barbecue. His friends are kind of dickish. And Southern. And possibly gay. We haven't seen them much lately.
Anyway, confirmed rumor had it that Benedict would be on the MTV reality-dating show Next. Have you seen it? You don't really need to; just imagine famewhores saying horribly scripted lines and doing anything to make a splash on TV. Got it? Good. Yes, it is very bed. Needless to say, my friends and I were delighted. Benedict, in (we assumed) lime green shorts and a pink polo shirt, trumpeting, "My name's Benedict! I'm 24 and originally from Georgia. I hope these girls like to go down... South!"
They say stuff like that. I met one of the show's associate producers a while ago, en route from Casa Escobar to the Gaslite. We drank rum from a Mountain Dew bottle as we walked, and he shared what ends up in the cutting room Trash bin. The American public: it isn't pretty.
But I digress! B.'s friends sent out a reminder e-mail that it would air yesterday. So I flip on the DVR this morning, and what do I see?
Foiled again.
I think it might actually air today.
Anyway, confirmed rumor had it that Benedict would be on the MTV reality-dating show Next. Have you seen it? You don't really need to; just imagine famewhores saying horribly scripted lines and doing anything to make a splash on TV. Got it? Good. Yes, it is very bed. Needless to say, my friends and I were delighted. Benedict, in (we assumed) lime green shorts and a pink polo shirt, trumpeting, "My name's Benedict! I'm 24 and originally from Georgia. I hope these girls like to go down... South!"
They say stuff like that. I met one of the show's associate producers a while ago, en route from Casa Escobar to the Gaslite. We drank rum from a Mountain Dew bottle as we walked, and he shared what ends up in the cutting room Trash bin. The American public: it isn't pretty.
But I digress! B.'s friends sent out a reminder e-mail that it would air yesterday. So I flip on the DVR this morning, and what do I see?
Foiled again.
I think it might actually air today.
6.05.2006
Apathy, It Cuts Like A Knife
I'm about to go take a walk, because in the seven hours I've been up, I've:
-made guacamole
-emptied the dishwasher
-re-watched the Prince performance on American Idol
-twice
I have not gone to yoga, been to the bank, written at all, cancelled my magazines, begun a closet purge of all my shit, or even gone to the Kwan Krackhouse to at least be useless in company.
I'm not even bragging. I feel gross.
-made guacamole
-emptied the dishwasher
-re-watched the Prince performance on American Idol
-twice
I have not gone to yoga, been to the bank, written at all, cancelled my magazines, begun a closet purge of all my shit, or even gone to the Kwan Krackhouse to at least be useless in company.
I'm not even bragging. I feel gross.
6.02.2006
Kulture Club
So, what to show Teb of this glorious La-La Land, fecund soil of culture and class? Wherefore could we comport ourselves with the usual dignity and stature?
Well, there's wine tasting in the Santa Ynez Valley.
The local watering hole.
The Getty.
(Okay, we actually behaved there).
You stay classy, San Diego. And thanks for stopping by.
Well, there's wine tasting in the Santa Ynez Valley.
The local watering hole.
The Getty.
(Okay, we actually behaved there).
You stay classy, San Diego. And thanks for stopping by.
Changes Afoot
Holy shit: it's happening.
I've told my friends.
I've told my roommates.
(Okay, I've told one).
So now I tell you:
Come July, I'll be moving back East.
AHHHHEWOIRHEWOIFHhsehdfiweuhfHHHHH!!!!!!!!!
I've told my friends.
I've told my roommates.
(Okay, I've told one).
So now I tell you:
Come July, I'll be moving back East.
AHHHHEWOIRHEWOIFHhsehdfiweuhfHHHHH!!!!!!!!!
6.01.2006
The List (updates to follow, I'm sure)
- visit the Vegetable Shop.
- go to Vegas with the girls.
- [redacted].
- [redacted].
- crash a club.
- taste wines in Santa Barbara.
- visit the Getty.
- go to the Grand Canyon.
- pirate necessary software.
- eat at Koi.
- go to Magic Mountain.
- call William Morris.
- drink with friends.
- go to Vegas with the girls.
- [redacted].
- [redacted].
- crash a club.
- taste wines in Santa Barbara.
- visit the Getty.
- go to the Grand Canyon.
- pirate necessary software.
- eat at Koi.
- go to Magic Mountain.
- call William Morris.
- drink with friends.
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