.
.
inspired by the hubbub around 3-6 mafia's oscar win.
copied from a comment made on kenji's blog.
b/c it is late and i am a lazy bastard.
-------------------------
for the record, i was disgruntled wayyy before the oscar win. black culture's strange fascination with pimpery is as inexplicable to me as its delight with black men cross dressing as their own grandmothers. i don't get it. and i think it all speaks to a discomfort and dysfunction we have around gender and sexuality that we really need to deal with in a responsible way if we are going to survive with our collective minds, families, intact.
but at the end of the day, i definitely think songs like the oscar-winner are a result of a deeper issue, not the cause.
or, is that a chicken and egg sort of distinction?
3.09.2006
2.08.2006
last night.
i most often fall asleep with my face inside my husband's neck; in that warm delicious crook where his chin and shoulder meet. the rest of us is often similarly entwined, with assorted variance required by mood temperament and pre-sleep activity; but this fact remains nearly constant. last night, (i had previously drunk coffee and was slightly wired) (and, to be honest, it was actually 7am this morning, when i finally wound down/finished work to an extent that i felt comfortable getting into the bed) his pulse seemed thunderous to me. insistent. i was struck with his intense aliveness, the juiciness and fluidity and solidness and heat of him. and felt in the core of me a huge gratitude and awe for this. but also felt like there was no way i could sleep with that much tireless rhythm right in my ear. i turned. and this is a thing about him that i love - his ability to have entire interaction and conversations with me in his sleep - when i gave him my back he curled right into me and pressed and held and instead of his bold intense heartbeat it was his deep and sweet breath in my ear. and i slept.
11.15.2005
these boots. these boots.
i am not a wearer of heels but these sneaker-soled 2-inchers are totally working for me. the 4 star comfort rating comes from my internal discomfort with having half my foot off the ground; but the wide flared base of the heel is quite sturdy and i predict i'll be ok in a moment. the shoes get open stares and smiles from strangers, which is all i ask in a pink and yellow antique looking narrow-ankle boot. oh yes- the ankle is NARROW! i am a skinny-legged gurl and this is a point of chagrin in all moments of my life except when i rock these shoes. they were kind of built for me. hooray!
working at the counter.
a flurry of yellow leaves currently started raining past my kitchen window.
my very own!
kitchen!
window!
lol. i am loving this.
my very own!
kitchen!
window!
lol. i am loving this.
11.02.2005
this is the thing (or: why i am undecided abt NaNoWriMo and november has already begun)
1. there are boxes everywhere. i mean, EVERYWHERE. who would have thunk that we had this much crap? it is all over the place. we are in need of major storage for books, VHS movies, DVDs, socks. but the good feeling is, it's OUR HOUSE!! we could pave the floors in books, VHS movies, DVDs and socks and who could tell us shit? nobody. nobody could tell us shit, that's who.
(maniacal laughter, insert here)
2. but still, inside my own need for equilibrium and daily beauty, there exists a situation where living on a carpet of accumulated crap is not acceptable. neither is it ok for said stuff to teeter at us from where it stands, stacked up against the wall in boxes we have yet to unpack because we have visions of the wall being a different color (that we have yet to choose) behind the bookshelves we have yet to design and build with tools we have yet to own and lumber we have yet to purchase.
i think we are going to have to suck it up and go to IKEA
but i say all that to say: aside from daily work, and catching up on the work that is backlogged from actually moving, is the daily work of reinstating order so that we can live and be creative in this new and wonderful space.
3. there is also the fact that this is the 2nd of november. i'm already 48 hrs behind when it comes to participating in NationalNovelWritingMonth, a national occasion of GROUPTHINK wherein thousands upon thousands of procrastination-prone individuals gather virtually to pretend to be writing novels, and a few thousand of them actually do so.
each november for the past, oh, say about 4 or 5 years, i have noted this passing fact with amusement, wistfulness, paranoia, dread, excitement, and wishful thinking. i use it as an occasion to pull out the various semi-conceived projects that are laid carefully in tissue-paper-lined compartments of my hard drive, blow off the dust, and leaf through their yellowed, crackling pages with fondness and pleased surprise. wow, i wrote THAT? i wish there was more of it. i'd sure like to read it.
it's hard for me to imagine being the same person who crafted those words that i find. i know that i did, because i recognize the brainwork. but my mind has fallen out of the writing habit and that's a problem.
NaNoWriMo is a neat idea b/c it consists of lots of [virtual] peer pressure and support and idea sharing and a place to go and whine about not having ideas or whatever; and is driven by the idea that no matter what, you should crank out a substantial amount of words every day, accumulating 50,000 by a chosen date, BECAUSE YOU CAN, DAMMIT.
but this is the thing: i am not so good with peer pressure. i am hard-wired against the grain and this becomes a problem when it comes down to certain circumstances, like following trends, joining food co-ops, popping my cherry earlier than i'm ready in a way i will come to regret, or joining mass writing movements. i have always found it difficult if not impossible to do any of it. perhaps this inability is linked to my distance from my writer-self?
*big dramatic sigh*
i really do wish that bitch would finish something though. it'd probably be good.
(maniacal laughter, insert here)
2. but still, inside my own need for equilibrium and daily beauty, there exists a situation where living on a carpet of accumulated crap is not acceptable. neither is it ok for said stuff to teeter at us from where it stands, stacked up against the wall in boxes we have yet to unpack because we have visions of the wall being a different color (that we have yet to choose) behind the bookshelves we have yet to design and build with tools we have yet to own and lumber we have yet to purchase.
i think we are going to have to suck it up and go to IKEA
but i say all that to say: aside from daily work, and catching up on the work that is backlogged from actually moving, is the daily work of reinstating order so that we can live and be creative in this new and wonderful space.
3. there is also the fact that this is the 2nd of november. i'm already 48 hrs behind when it comes to participating in NationalNovelWritingMonth, a national occasion of GROUPTHINK wherein thousands upon thousands of procrastination-prone individuals gather virtually to pretend to be writing novels, and a few thousand of them actually do so.
each november for the past, oh, say about 4 or 5 years, i have noted this passing fact with amusement, wistfulness, paranoia, dread, excitement, and wishful thinking. i use it as an occasion to pull out the various semi-conceived projects that are laid carefully in tissue-paper-lined compartments of my hard drive, blow off the dust, and leaf through their yellowed, crackling pages with fondness and pleased surprise. wow, i wrote THAT? i wish there was more of it. i'd sure like to read it.
it's hard for me to imagine being the same person who crafted those words that i find. i know that i did, because i recognize the brainwork. but my mind has fallen out of the writing habit and that's a problem.
NaNoWriMo is a neat idea b/c it consists of lots of [virtual] peer pressure and support and idea sharing and a place to go and whine about not having ideas or whatever; and is driven by the idea that no matter what, you should crank out a substantial amount of words every day, accumulating 50,000 by a chosen date, BECAUSE YOU CAN, DAMMIT.
but this is the thing: i am not so good with peer pressure. i am hard-wired against the grain and this becomes a problem when it comes down to certain circumstances, like following trends, joining food co-ops, popping my cherry earlier than i'm ready in a way i will come to regret, or joining mass writing movements. i have always found it difficult if not impossible to do any of it. perhaps this inability is linked to my distance from my writer-self?
*big dramatic sigh*
i really do wish that bitch would finish something though. it'd probably be good.
10.30.2005
so, what the heck, maybe i'll blog again
i used to blog on xanga. we're talking like four, maybe 5 years ago. a few years ago i wandered away from it and put a few of my favorite pieces up here, just for safekeeping kind of.
but i just moved and need something to do between unpacking boxes, that is less immersive and addicting then the sims 2.
but i just moved and need something to do between unpacking boxes, that is less immersive and addicting then the sims 2.
8.30.2004
luciderotic dream w/strange expository essay ending
Me and like five other women were giggling, teasing each other. We were the first people to board a plane or some other conveyance and were spread out over many seats. They were airplane seats but ours faced each other like the center seats on the LIRR commuter train. We had on suits and hose; were dressed like either leaving for or coming from a convention of some kind, but felt like vacation. There were shoes kicked off, loud laughter, raunchy jokes. Part of me felt like I'd just met these women but the other part knew that we were intimates. Knew each other well.
I was reading a book with half my attention. It was excellent fluff- flirting and discovery, a romance disguised with literary undertones. I was about 20 pages in and was being pleasantly surprised and turned to my left to ask girlfriend #1 which of the other girlfriends had written it. (this is what made me think I hadn't known them for long. I knew their names, knew that one of them was a writer, but didn't know names + faces) she said "actually, joie wrote it" and pointed to a man sitting a couple of rows up. I was surprised and impressed at joie's insight into women's minds; the novel was reading really realistically. Joie wasn't part of our group. He sat ahead of us and apart, reading a magazine.
I was reading the novel word by word. If I'd written this down sooner after waking, I probably could have quoted it.
I was trying to find a place to lay down, but my girlfriends' purses and things were in the seat next to me. One of them (call her "Kathy") had been sitting there but she'd since moved opposite me, and left her purse. I threatened to lay on it, joked that she must've left it there for me to use as a pillow. She talked about all the breakable stuff that was in there. I flunxed a bit. Where was I supposed to lay down? Pulled the armrests up and flopped around the seats a little.
As I squirmed around, the plane was filling up. I had less and less room to squirm. Suddenly I was comfortable, and settled down to read. I noticed Kathy looking at me funny and looked around: my seat back was down to a full reclining position and gone. And one of my legs was stretched out, foot nestled in a warm spot near the hip of the man behind me.
I jumped and squealed and was embarrassed. "Oh my goodness, I'm sorry!" Looked at Kathy like she should have warned me from doing such mess. "Got me all intimate with strangers up in here, sorry about my crusty foot in your lap, lol…"
He smiled in a gentle/intense/directed way and said "Your foot isn't crusty and you know it." and he held out his hand like an invitation & a demand. I looked at Kathy with eyebrows raised. Well, oh-KAY and stretched back out on my stomach, put my foot into his hand, and started pretending to read my book.
He started massaging my foot.
I was wide-eyed.
I twisted onto my side, looked back at him. He was dressed in a suit, so were the two next to him, but one was sleeping and the other was politely pretending to look out the window. In the movie of my mind he was being played by taye diggs, but I'm going to try to ignore this embarrassing fact and will not reference it again. LOL. Instead, I'll call him SuitMan.
His hands were moving upward, to my ankle, to my calf. It was less about massage and more about feeling up my leg; and he looked directly into my eyes and wasn’t pretending otherwise. My girlfriends were in a fury of giggles and elbowing and knowing winks like we were on our way to vegas, like we were at a school dance, like I was scoring, not whoring. (ha HA! That just came to me now, I'm so damn clever). The chemistry between me and SuitMan was palpable.
I stretched my other leg out, and he immediately began stroking and kneading that one too, starting from the arch of my foot and moving upward. Ultimately, he pushed both my legs off his lap, grasped my hips, and smoothly pulled me back onto his lap. His right fingers interwove with mine and he did that junior high school thing, where he presses a hard stroke down the center of your palm, and by this time my panties were in a respectably junior high school level of froth.
With his other hand, he was pressing long and very slow strokes up and down my spine. Trailing tickling fingers upward, tracing firm rivers back down again. At this point, I was writhing on this man's lap and didn't care who saw.
The cart came by and he asked if I wanted a drink. I asked for a sweet rum and coke; I had it. my girlfriends were stealing glances and fanning themselves. I knew I was going to get teased mercilessly when we got where we were going but it was already worth it.
The plane was emptying now. It was like a bus or train, in that people got on and off at different points, but there was only sky outside the windows and I could hear murmurs of "mile-high club" around me. The thought was extremely attractive to me. I would have fucked that man then and there had he given me the signal. I was being played like a violin and loved it. I was pure response.
Kathy came back one row and stretched out next to the beautiful, tall guy sitting next to SuitMan, who was wearing a cream-colored dress coat which set off his red-chocolate skin like candy. They flirted for a while and then she switched away, looking back like an invitation and a challenge.
I looked at RedChocolate and he was watching me. Looking a little bit wistful. "Sebastian always gets his woman," he said. "Oh," I said, and turned in my seat to look at SuitMan. "Is that your name?" I told him mine. He nodded, a half-smile on his face. Before I could even articulate the thought of "always? So does 'Sebastian' do this kind of thing often?", RedChocolate had walked away after Kathy. Really what was on my mind, though, wasn't abt how often Sebastian seduced women on public transportation- I didn’t actually care. What was on my mind was trying to figure out what about his approach made it work; why exactly I had been sitting on this stranger's lap, two seconds from coming, for the past twenty minutes. RedChocolate seemed so perplexed about it and really he was foine, way finer than Sebastian. . . I wanted to make him understand the 'secret.'
I couldn't tell him b/c he was off to play flirting games with Kathy. So I turned to SuitMan/Sebastian and said "I don't know you, or anything." He did the seduction speech, about how we shouldn’t ignore what is there in favor of what's not - yet - and we have all this potential and truth in this moment and would I throw that away? "Absolutely not," I said. "I'm totally committed to the potential and truth in this moment, and more so to what your hands are doing. But I also want it understood that I recognize we don't know each other. I am responding to a lot of things right now. You’re beautiful, confident, demanding, respectful, insistent, direct and polite. It's an incredibly sexy combination and I would be a fool to deny what's building here. I am not a fool. I'm just saying that after this moment… I'm looking forward to that part, too."
At that point, I looked to my right, and across the aisle was a huge bedroom chamber with king-sized bed. One of the flight attendants was turning down the fluffy comforters and fluffing the pillows. "Ah," I thought, as if we'd ordered such a chamber and it was finally ready. "enough talking."
I had been keeping myself asleep to make sure I got to the conclusion of the adventure and at this point I woke up to write it down.
whew.
I was reading a book with half my attention. It was excellent fluff- flirting and discovery, a romance disguised with literary undertones. I was about 20 pages in and was being pleasantly surprised and turned to my left to ask girlfriend #1 which of the other girlfriends had written it. (this is what made me think I hadn't known them for long. I knew their names, knew that one of them was a writer, but didn't know names + faces) she said "actually, joie wrote it" and pointed to a man sitting a couple of rows up. I was surprised and impressed at joie's insight into women's minds; the novel was reading really realistically. Joie wasn't part of our group. He sat ahead of us and apart, reading a magazine.
I was reading the novel word by word. If I'd written this down sooner after waking, I probably could have quoted it.
I was trying to find a place to lay down, but my girlfriends' purses and things were in the seat next to me. One of them (call her "Kathy") had been sitting there but she'd since moved opposite me, and left her purse. I threatened to lay on it, joked that she must've left it there for me to use as a pillow. She talked about all the breakable stuff that was in there. I flunxed a bit. Where was I supposed to lay down? Pulled the armrests up and flopped around the seats a little.
As I squirmed around, the plane was filling up. I had less and less room to squirm. Suddenly I was comfortable, and settled down to read. I noticed Kathy looking at me funny and looked around: my seat back was down to a full reclining position and gone. And one of my legs was stretched out, foot nestled in a warm spot near the hip of the man behind me.
I jumped and squealed and was embarrassed. "Oh my goodness, I'm sorry!" Looked at Kathy like she should have warned me from doing such mess. "Got me all intimate with strangers up in here, sorry about my crusty foot in your lap, lol…"
He smiled in a gentle/intense/directed way and said "Your foot isn't crusty and you know it." and he held out his hand like an invitation & a demand. I looked at Kathy with eyebrows raised. Well, oh-KAY and stretched back out on my stomach, put my foot into his hand, and started pretending to read my book.
He started massaging my foot.
I was wide-eyed.
I twisted onto my side, looked back at him. He was dressed in a suit, so were the two next to him, but one was sleeping and the other was politely pretending to look out the window. In the movie of my mind he was being played by taye diggs, but I'm going to try to ignore this embarrassing fact and will not reference it again. LOL. Instead, I'll call him SuitMan.
His hands were moving upward, to my ankle, to my calf. It was less about massage and more about feeling up my leg; and he looked directly into my eyes and wasn’t pretending otherwise. My girlfriends were in a fury of giggles and elbowing and knowing winks like we were on our way to vegas, like we were at a school dance, like I was scoring, not whoring. (ha HA! That just came to me now, I'm so damn clever). The chemistry between me and SuitMan was palpable.
I stretched my other leg out, and he immediately began stroking and kneading that one too, starting from the arch of my foot and moving upward. Ultimately, he pushed both my legs off his lap, grasped my hips, and smoothly pulled me back onto his lap. His right fingers interwove with mine and he did that junior high school thing, where he presses a hard stroke down the center of your palm, and by this time my panties were in a respectably junior high school level of froth.
With his other hand, he was pressing long and very slow strokes up and down my spine. Trailing tickling fingers upward, tracing firm rivers back down again. At this point, I was writhing on this man's lap and didn't care who saw.
The cart came by and he asked if I wanted a drink. I asked for a sweet rum and coke; I had it. my girlfriends were stealing glances and fanning themselves. I knew I was going to get teased mercilessly when we got where we were going but it was already worth it.
The plane was emptying now. It was like a bus or train, in that people got on and off at different points, but there was only sky outside the windows and I could hear murmurs of "mile-high club" around me. The thought was extremely attractive to me. I would have fucked that man then and there had he given me the signal. I was being played like a violin and loved it. I was pure response.
Kathy came back one row and stretched out next to the beautiful, tall guy sitting next to SuitMan, who was wearing a cream-colored dress coat which set off his red-chocolate skin like candy. They flirted for a while and then she switched away, looking back like an invitation and a challenge.
I looked at RedChocolate and he was watching me. Looking a little bit wistful. "Sebastian always gets his woman," he said. "Oh," I said, and turned in my seat to look at SuitMan. "Is that your name?" I told him mine. He nodded, a half-smile on his face. Before I could even articulate the thought of "always? So does 'Sebastian' do this kind of thing often?", RedChocolate had walked away after Kathy. Really what was on my mind, though, wasn't abt how often Sebastian seduced women on public transportation- I didn’t actually care. What was on my mind was trying to figure out what about his approach made it work; why exactly I had been sitting on this stranger's lap, two seconds from coming, for the past twenty minutes. RedChocolate seemed so perplexed about it and really he was foine, way finer than Sebastian. . . I wanted to make him understand the 'secret.'
I couldn't tell him b/c he was off to play flirting games with Kathy. So I turned to SuitMan/Sebastian and said "I don't know you, or anything." He did the seduction speech, about how we shouldn’t ignore what is there in favor of what's not - yet - and we have all this potential and truth in this moment and would I throw that away? "Absolutely not," I said. "I'm totally committed to the potential and truth in this moment, and more so to what your hands are doing. But I also want it understood that I recognize we don't know each other. I am responding to a lot of things right now. You’re beautiful, confident, demanding, respectful, insistent, direct and polite. It's an incredibly sexy combination and I would be a fool to deny what's building here. I am not a fool. I'm just saying that after this moment… I'm looking forward to that part, too."
At that point, I looked to my right, and across the aisle was a huge bedroom chamber with king-sized bed. One of the flight attendants was turning down the fluffy comforters and fluffing the pillows. "Ah," I thought, as if we'd ordered such a chamber and it was finally ready. "enough talking."
I had been keeping myself asleep to make sure I got to the conclusion of the adventure and at this point I woke up to write it down.
whew.
4.29.2003
there is a perfect pair of boots of which i dream sometimes.
this is not some *hypothetical* perfect boot that i am imagining to exist out there in the ether, like some mythical 'mr. right' for whom i am sitting here, alone, wistful and pining away.
i am not the pining type.
this was a real pair of boots, i know they exist. i know where they are. i touched them, even. i smelled the leather. i didn't try them on, though; there was no use torturing ourselves about it.
you know what i mean? the attraction was there, nearly electric in its intensity. we knew we belonged together, but alas, the price was prohibitive. it was not to be, my money being presently tied up in other investments. it wasn't them, it was me. it was nothing personal, i just wasn't ready to make that kind of committment.
we tried not to be melodramatic about it. we didn't drag it out. we acknowledged our connection, and turned our faces forward, moved forth into our seperate futures, no regrets. it had to be this way. i sang 'next lifetime' under my breath and marched on.
(music up.....
....end scene ROTFL)
i am not given to this kind of behavior with little cause. it doesn't happen often and when it does, i take it seriously. there was only *one* other pair of sole mate shoes with which i had an equally dramatic & similarly doomed relationship.
it was five years ago, and i still remember them vividly. it was in london... a city full of mist and cobblestones and strangely angled streets and much mystery. and amazing shoes.
this pair was an unassuming oxford... the sole perhaps a trifle thicker than classic. perhaps the toe turned up a little, rounded? reminding one of chaplin, crib shoes, elves? the leather was matte & black, so soft it looked delicately weathered. the cut work was hand-stitched. with *brown* sitches, gleaming against the shoe like old pennies.
they were so beautiful, i just had to stop and stare. introduced myself through the shop window at first, being shy, but moving in soon enough, pulled inexorably to them, my earth-tone-addicted flower child self twanging in response to a nudge from an inner dandy rearing its dapper head.
what would i do with a pair of english oxfords? i'd have to rock purple organza many-tiered skirts and denim jackets torn off at the waist and buttoned tight over antique camisoles. i'd have to wear turquoise and white, and have embroidery at my hemlines. i'd have to abandon my many favorite t-shirts and step outside of the cotton jersey/denim family to clothe myself. eeek!
plus i was in london, in college, and had my first credit card ever. i was still cringing off the joke i'd played on myself with the exchange rate and a pair of buster brown-esque wooden platform sandals (which worked with my tshirt aesthetic, let me tell you, but freaked me out when i saw the statement. those were HOW MUCH in american money? LOL)
with the sandals, see, i could continue dressing like i did in second grade, which is *really* my aesthetic preference. all my fashion fantasies aside, my inner child is skipping down sesame street in bellbottom blue corduroys and a striped turtleneck. it is risk-free to follow her there.
but hand-stitched english oxfords... that's changing the game a little. that means i was going back to atlanta and completely re-examining my wardrobe. sorry, i should have written 'wardrobe' in quotes. as in, "so-called wardrobe." english oxfords meant making whole different level of committment to the act of dressing myself.
was i ready? could i do it?
puh-leeze. i dropped those shoes like a hot potato and bought a pair of british adidas.
i am not the pining type.
this was a real pair of boots, i know they exist. i know where they are. i touched them, even. i smelled the leather. i didn't try them on, though; there was no use torturing ourselves about it.
you know what i mean? the attraction was there, nearly electric in its intensity. we knew we belonged together, but alas, the price was prohibitive. it was not to be, my money being presently tied up in other investments. it wasn't them, it was me. it was nothing personal, i just wasn't ready to make that kind of committment.
we tried not to be melodramatic about it. we didn't drag it out. we acknowledged our connection, and turned our faces forward, moved forth into our seperate futures, no regrets. it had to be this way. i sang 'next lifetime' under my breath and marched on.
(music up.....
....end scene ROTFL)
i am not given to this kind of behavior with little cause. it doesn't happen often and when it does, i take it seriously. there was only *one* other pair of sole mate shoes with which i had an equally dramatic & similarly doomed relationship.
it was five years ago, and i still remember them vividly. it was in london... a city full of mist and cobblestones and strangely angled streets and much mystery. and amazing shoes.
this pair was an unassuming oxford... the sole perhaps a trifle thicker than classic. perhaps the toe turned up a little, rounded? reminding one of chaplin, crib shoes, elves? the leather was matte & black, so soft it looked delicately weathered. the cut work was hand-stitched. with *brown* sitches, gleaming against the shoe like old pennies.
they were so beautiful, i just had to stop and stare. introduced myself through the shop window at first, being shy, but moving in soon enough, pulled inexorably to them, my earth-tone-addicted flower child self twanging in response to a nudge from an inner dandy rearing its dapper head.
what would i do with a pair of english oxfords? i'd have to rock purple organza many-tiered skirts and denim jackets torn off at the waist and buttoned tight over antique camisoles. i'd have to wear turquoise and white, and have embroidery at my hemlines. i'd have to abandon my many favorite t-shirts and step outside of the cotton jersey/denim family to clothe myself. eeek!
plus i was in london, in college, and had my first credit card ever. i was still cringing off the joke i'd played on myself with the exchange rate and a pair of buster brown-esque wooden platform sandals (which worked with my tshirt aesthetic, let me tell you, but freaked me out when i saw the statement. those were HOW MUCH in american money? LOL)
with the sandals, see, i could continue dressing like i did in second grade, which is *really* my aesthetic preference. all my fashion fantasies aside, my inner child is skipping down sesame street in bellbottom blue corduroys and a striped turtleneck. it is risk-free to follow her there.
but hand-stitched english oxfords... that's changing the game a little. that means i was going back to atlanta and completely re-examining my wardrobe. sorry, i should have written 'wardrobe' in quotes. as in, "so-called wardrobe." english oxfords meant making whole different level of committment to the act of dressing myself.
was i ready? could i do it?
puh-leeze. i dropped those shoes like a hot potato and bought a pair of british adidas.
2.22.2003
public service announcement (feel free to forward)
yesterday, from three different people, i got that email forward.
you know the one.
"you'll lose your hotmail if you don't forward this to 10 -- 20 -- 30 of your friends and also you'll catch the plague and get yr kidney stolen and die but if you forward it bill gates will send you a check for $4,835.93, i know because my cousin got hers!"
we've all gotten this annoying-ass missive at one time or another, usually from some well-meaning and friendly soul who thinks they're doing a good & helpful thing.
they are not. they are killing electronic trees & cluttering up my inbox with cyber trash. this morning i was inspired to commision an educational initiative from honeychild-hates-forwards, inc.
what follows is a couple of unmitigated truths of email, hoaxes, and the art and science of forwarding nonsense to innocent cyber-bystanders. this information is good to know in general but has particular good use as a guideline for what not to send to ME. please feel free to forward THIS around, far and wide.
1. if something increases font size three times in the course of the email, it is ALMOST CERTAINLY BULLSHIT.
don't send it to me.
2. if it tells you you have to forward it to 10 people, 20 people, or "everyone in your address book," it is DEFINITELY BULLSHIT.
don't send it to me.
3. if it threatens you with the loss of your email, or promises you money from some corporation, but doesn't come directly from the corporation or service provider in question, it is NECESSARILY, OBVIOUSLY, INDUBITABLY BULLSHIT. nothing somebody forwards you is or can be official correspondence, it can never be traced by the company supposedly involved, it is NOT real, and it is annoying as hell.
don't send it to me.
4. if it promises good luck, or threatens bad luck, it's KARMICALLY EVIL BULLSHIT.
don't send it to me.
aaarrrghhghghg!!!
this has been a public service announcement brought to you by jamyla-hates-forwards, inc.
you know the one.
"you'll lose your hotmail if you don't forward this to 10 -- 20 -- 30 of your friends and also you'll catch the plague and get yr kidney stolen and die but if you forward it bill gates will send you a check for $4,835.93, i know because my cousin got hers!"
we've all gotten this annoying-ass missive at one time or another, usually from some well-meaning and friendly soul who thinks they're doing a good & helpful thing.
they are not. they are killing electronic trees & cluttering up my inbox with cyber trash. this morning i was inspired to commision an educational initiative from honeychild-hates-forwards, inc.
what follows is a couple of unmitigated truths of email, hoaxes, and the art and science of forwarding nonsense to innocent cyber-bystanders. this information is good to know in general but has particular good use as a guideline for what not to send to ME. please feel free to forward THIS around, far and wide.
1. if something increases font size three times in the course of the email, it is ALMOST CERTAINLY BULLSHIT.
don't send it to me.
2. if it tells you you have to forward it to 10 people, 20 people, or "everyone in your address book," it is DEFINITELY BULLSHIT.
don't send it to me.
3. if it threatens you with the loss of your email, or promises you money from some corporation, but doesn't come directly from the corporation or service provider in question, it is NECESSARILY, OBVIOUSLY, INDUBITABLY BULLSHIT. nothing somebody forwards you is or can be official correspondence, it can never be traced by the company supposedly involved, it is NOT real, and it is annoying as hell.
don't send it to me.
4. if it promises good luck, or threatens bad luck, it's KARMICALLY EVIL BULLSHIT.
don't send it to me.
aaarrrghhghghg!!!
this has been a public service announcement brought to you by jamyla-hates-forwards, inc.
12.06.2002
cramps! who invented them?
fooey on that person, whoever it was. i mean, what is the purpose of cramps? what is their reason? is it about fitness? am i building hidden muscle power in some secret velvet place? my body is doing something fabulous & necessary and kind of clever, after all; purging and renewing its very cells! why should this not be a fun time filled with wonder and the delicate crystal song of new electrons dancing?
i read somewhere once that our bodies do not retain sense-memory of pain. we just can't do it. you know those little orgasm after-shocks that rock you an hour after a Good One? no such physiological equivalent for ouches. once the pain is gone, it is GONE. perhaps this is how women come to give birth to more than one child. (hee hee.) more relevant to my own experience, perhaps this is why each month i sing the same broken lament: in the face of sudden & always somehow surprising crampage, i mourn my absentmindedness and demand of myself the IMMEDIATE development of better pain management skills.
i imagine it needn't be that hard. i imagine it would simply require greater attention paid to the dosage/schedule/timing of the soup of random chemicals i ingest for two days every month.
i'm talkin the good stuff. ibuprofen, acitometophen, aspirin, naproxin sodium. sometimes combined in strange and intoxitating ways with that kick-starter, caffeine, by the people at MIDOL or EXCEDRIN (yeah daddy, talk those sweet chemical compounds to me.)
now, normally i'm not a huge supporter of the medical/industrial complex in general. i much prefer unadvertized and organic substances that can be plucked from the fertile earth and swallowed, smoked, steeped and sipped, or used as a fabulous conditioning rinse, depending.
but once a month, like many other Good Witches In The West with extremely low pain thresholds, i take my meds. i pop them when i feel the twinge, then languish in agony until it's gone. and in that moment, that's my only thought. not, 'fight the power' or 'affordable healthcare for all' or 'the earth is our mother, she has all i need,' but 'GET THE PAIN GONE.'
and then once it's gone, because i am a dunderhead, i forget i'm supposed to be in pain at all and go gallavanting around living my ordinary life of constant discovery and joy in everything. until WHAM-O, back it comes and i'm like, "oh, that's right, my period just started. my uterus is doing stuff, huh? i should've probably taken another one of those little pills like twenty minutes ago, and then i wouldn't be curling slowly into a fetal ball right now."
o, cruel attention span, thou art mine own worst enemy.
grumble grumble.
i read somewhere once that our bodies do not retain sense-memory of pain. we just can't do it. you know those little orgasm after-shocks that rock you an hour after a Good One? no such physiological equivalent for ouches. once the pain is gone, it is GONE. perhaps this is how women come to give birth to more than one child. (hee hee.) more relevant to my own experience, perhaps this is why each month i sing the same broken lament: in the face of sudden & always somehow surprising crampage, i mourn my absentmindedness and demand of myself the IMMEDIATE development of better pain management skills.
i imagine it needn't be that hard. i imagine it would simply require greater attention paid to the dosage/schedule/timing of the soup of random chemicals i ingest for two days every month.
i'm talkin the good stuff. ibuprofen, acitometophen, aspirin, naproxin sodium. sometimes combined in strange and intoxitating ways with that kick-starter, caffeine, by the people at MIDOL or EXCEDRIN (yeah daddy, talk those sweet chemical compounds to me.)
now, normally i'm not a huge supporter of the medical/industrial complex in general. i much prefer unadvertized and organic substances that can be plucked from the fertile earth and swallowed, smoked, steeped and sipped, or used as a fabulous conditioning rinse, depending.
but once a month, like many other Good Witches In The West with extremely low pain thresholds, i take my meds. i pop them when i feel the twinge, then languish in agony until it's gone. and in that moment, that's my only thought. not, 'fight the power' or 'affordable healthcare for all' or 'the earth is our mother, she has all i need,' but 'GET THE PAIN GONE.'
and then once it's gone, because i am a dunderhead, i forget i'm supposed to be in pain at all and go gallavanting around living my ordinary life of constant discovery and joy in everything. until WHAM-O, back it comes and i'm like, "oh, that's right, my period just started. my uterus is doing stuff, huh? i should've probably taken another one of those little pills like twenty minutes ago, and then i wouldn't be curling slowly into a fetal ball right now."
o, cruel attention span, thou art mine own worst enemy.
grumble grumble.
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